Some days I feel brave and new. I tell myself, “I can do this. I can take big strides now, and feel sure about it. I feel good. I can do it. I. Can. Do. This, Damn. It!” That special spot in my heart does not feel so sore and I almost can shake my mane and roar.
And then the weepy moments come: seeing photos of siblings in groups of four; hearing something about a two-year-old boy; over-hearing the girls saying something about Ferdinand; sometimes it is just some music, though nothing in particular. Not comprehending how I could still feel disbelief; not predicting when waves of memories come crashing through.
Some days seem so normal. Boring. Mundane. Nothing great, grand or tragic ever happened.
Some days I wonder how could I be having a normal day?
The other day I banged into something near to my elbow in a rush to get ourselves out of the door to someplace. It hurt but I had no time to look at it. When I took off my sweater in the evening I saw a 2-inch cut and the surrounding flesh swollen. Washed and cleaned it, dried it and slapped a rainbow-colored plaster on it (coz I never expect to be walking around with a brightly-colored plaster, those were for the kids, coz they are the ones who go get scraps and cuts and bruises, no??). Protected and padded by the plaster, the pain dulled. Only when I accidentally bumped against it did I remember there was an injury at that site. The grief for Ferdinand is kind of like that now. Periods of amnesia interspersed with jolts of memory. Dull pain that melds into the days.
I remember once I got a bad cut on my thumb (sliced off a part of it actually) and realized with a start the days after how much I needed my thumb for so many things I do on a daily basis. It seems you need to have it hurting or missing in order to realize how precious and how important it really is. Otherwise, it is just a part of your daily mundane landscape.
I started to think if I one day was careless again and cut off say, my little finger, I am sure it is going to hurt and for days I will mourn and swear about the loss of my little finger, and perhaps ruminate over why before did I not realize how important a little finger is for so many things that I do. Then the wound will heal over and yes people will look oddly at me but I will somehow figure out a way to live with four digits on one hand. It will slowly become natural to live with just four fingers on one hand- because there is no way of fixing that missing finger, period.
The only difference is, the missing baby was never taken for granted.
The only similarity is, you just gotta deal with it somehow and one day it actually can become a natural part of your life. And also, you will not get that missing finger back. Or the baby. And it is just futile to think about it.
Although, perhaps, in these days of advanced science, I am certain, if I need that little finger because I play the piano for a living, or something of that sort, with some connections and a sum of money I can get a robotic one attached and I have read the new things connect and interact with your body and everything moves as connected. So, at least I can find a very close replacement of that little finger and even say, “It’s just like the other one.”
I am pretty sure with a little baby the above scenario will never, ever be possible. This relationship I have with Ferdinand changes all the time. Sometimes he is still that little baby, but a few hours old (since exiting from the womb, cold); but he lives at the edge of time, just outside the door of this world where I live. Other times he is a shadow that grows over time, an apparition that I imagine and fantasize, guessing his height, his voice, his habits. Sometimes he is already grown up, an adult benign and wise, clasping my hands in his big, warm palms, telling me all is fine. Sometimes he is like a balloon that I feel I need to let go, because I can’t hold on all the time, and the balloon wishes to fly free.
Just live it. Some days that is what I tell myself. You just live it, and try to live it big.
Beautiful post, Janis. Sometimes we need to pick at that grief scab, other days we just accidentally knock it off, or someone else does. Ultimately though, that pain never goes away.
xo
(sigh).
Exactly.
Hugs.
xoxo
Great post. I can relate, as most others around here can. The pain will never go away. The pain will dull, but there are moments when the scab gets picked at and you remember how much it hurt in the first place.
xox
Beautiful, Janis.
“Sometimes he is like a balloon that I feel I need to let go, because I can’t hold on all the time, and the balloon wishes to fly free.” – I feel this way all the time, wanting to hang on and cling even though I can’t. Even though I’m pretty sure he wouldn’t want me to.
Again, what a beautiful post and you’ve managed to capture that strange grief we struggle with.