I considered not turning the calendar to August. Wake me up when it’s September and those 3 days are behind me. Devastation Day, Amy’s birthday and the last day of August when my brother died. Yet, yesterday I walked over to the three calendars in my home and flipped the page to August. Almost as if I wanted to say, “ef you world, bring it on.” You have already beaten me down to my rawest core and injured my soul…
I have been tormented by the universe throwing insensitive and clueless people in my path and also blessed at the same time with more love and compassion than any one person deserves in a lifetime, let alone, one year.
I have existed almost one year without my daughter and it has been a living hell. Grief is like the worst emotional virus you can imagine. Deep sobbing, unimaginable loneliness, excruciating pain, relentless grief ambushes brought on by anything and everything. There is no prescription on how to get through it or a diagnosis of how long it will last.
My world will never be the same and I am angry and beyond sad that my youngest daughter is gone. And don’t even throw the anger stage at me. Dammit. Which stage is the devastated stage? That’s where I live now.
What has changed since I approach the one year mark of Devastation Day? My faith is shifting back to where it was prior to August 4, but as I keep saying, I have a long way to go. I no longer believe God was deliberately punishing me by taking my daughter. Yet, the result was the same because I feel the wrath of punishment living in a world without Amy.
What if God was saving Amy from a worse fate? If only He would call me and tell me so I could thank Him, because believe me I would. What mother wouldn’t? Regardless of the pain in my heart, I always want the very best for my children.
I always welcome the comments on this blog, my designated grieving place, but cannot always handle the “poor Dee” comments outside of the blog as someone does a drive by to comment on our loss. Don’t pity me. I loath that I already feel sorry for myself. Pray for my family and remember Amy. That’s all I ask.
Trust me, after existing in this world almost one year, I am well aware I am not the only one to lose a child. This is a club that no one ever wants to join, yet my heart knows a new compassion for strangers which I never knew I was capable of experiencing. I noticed my husband has that same sincere compassion for the grieving parents we have met.
My husband knows only too well who we are living without and the love she brought to our family. Others can only imagine. We grieve differently but it’s obvious we are both suffering in our own ways. I retreat to bed early while he watches a game in an effort to distract himself.
I sometimes wander onto other grieving parents blogs who are farther along and wonder what I am doing wrong. Then I realize while they will always carry the invisible wound and loss, they have one thing I have not acquired to give me a different perspective. Time.
Sometimes in our bereavement meetings when a new victim of devastation day walks into the room, I watch their tear streaked, sleep deprived faces glance in awe at someone speaking who is quite a few years on the other side of the loss of a child. I remember thinking where does the peace and smile come from. Time would be my guess. Yet the knowing look in their eyes and the fact that they still cry with you reminds me that time does not completely heal all wounds. Losing a child is the deepest wound carried in life. Not to diminish other losses, but it is the worst thing that could happen.
Yesterday, I made a call to change my cable and they are setting us up with new equipment. The installer will need to get into the rooms with televisions, but I already told them they cannot go into one of the rooms in my house because it’s my daughter’s room, who passed away last summer. He probably thought she died in that room, but she didn’t. Then I made a car reservation, and the first four digits of my confirmation was 84. You might as well put a hyphen in between the 8 and the 4 because that is what it feels like when I see those numbers together. Every license plate seems to be 84. Devastation Day.
Almost one year. Hard to believe. I miss you Amy. God, take good care of my baby because I know she is with You. She has to be. There is no where else she can be if she isn’t here with me.
Remembering my Amy always.