Rogue Waves

My therapist has me visualising the more intense emotional moments of this whole grief process, whatever they may be, as waves, and I am surfing them, trying to stay atop the waves, and just be present and in control of the moment, feeling and experiencing the emotion. I can’t say I enjoy this process, even when I do well with it.
I don’t want to be feeling any of this. I want to be feeling the soft joy of holding my Zora, even if it is for an hour at a time in the NICU, not this crushing, soul destroying grief that has left my life in sharp pieces at my feet, too tiny to pick up and put back together.
Nonetheless, this is what I have. Every so often, a tsunami wave comes out of nowhere and knocks me off my mental surfboard, leaving me foundering in the waters of my lonely beach in my head. My friend Jeremy named them rogue waves, and these rogue waves are atrocious things, triggers that I am rarely expecting and sometimes can’t even identify. I have two regular lifeguards at my beach, Jeremy and Shannon, who, Gods bless them, have been with me at every hour of the night and day to fish me out of the overwhelming waves and back onto my board, and listen to me, sobbing helplessly while they gently talk me back to balance. They are just quiet listeners, acknowledging my overwhelming pain, the unyielding grief and hard desire to have my baby back in my arms as I clutch the angel bear given to me by the NICU, that I keep wrapped in Zora’s blankets. Those blankets and bear are soaked in more of my tears than I can imagine at this point.
I’m struggling with a rogue wave right now, actually, have had tons of them today, because it’s Friday. 7 weeks since we lost her today. Almost two months. I hate Fridays so much. I slept today while I was alone, while the kids were at school and Jody was at work. It was too much to bear, being alone today for some reason. I probably should have left the house and done the shopping that needed to be done, but I just couldn’t manage it, so I slept. I couldn’t bear to be awake where the waves would drown me, so I slipped into the silent abyss of sleep, where my angel looks over me and is with me always, cradled against my chest, tiny, warm, and sweet, mine to hold and protect.

I always told myself while she was in the NICU that if I could just hold her she would be ok, and everything would be fine. Instead, she died in my arms, and I lost her forever. How very wrong I was.


~ by Kelly on October 9, 2015.

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