During the past week, I have been in constant motion. On Sunday night my sister, aka Mrs. Fix-It, arrived to help prepare my son’s home for sale. Her can-do attitude puts most people half her age to shame. She sees no task as impossible which is the polar opposite of who I am now since Amy’s sudden passing.
Now everything seems impossible and the simplest tasks overwhelm me. Days on the calendar frighten me. The future makes no sense without Amy yet I realize I have responsibilities which cannot be abandoned just because it feels as though the world has abandoned me.
It is clear that this impending dreadful feeling that overtakes me numerous times a day is now part of my emotional chemistry. Did you ever anxiously wait for someone to arrive home on a snowy or rainy night while you prayed, begged and pleaded with God or the universe for their safe return? Remember that sick feeling in the pit of your stomach and the racing thoughts of the what ifs you were battling? Imagine multiplying that feeling by an infinite level of intensity and that may give anyone who cares an idea of how I feel numerous times a day. The dread precedes the reality thought.
My body was exhausted as we were shopping, cleaning, spackling and painting for three straight days. All the while my grief was screaming “let me out” and “don’t you know your daughter died” kept resonating through my mind as I went through the motions of completing the tasks in front of me. By the end of the day I thought my mind and heart were going to explode from shoving that grief aside. Yet the rational part of me knew only too well that my sister’s assistance was needed and there was no time to collapse under the pressure of my relentless grief. Maybe that was the part of my mind that carried me through Devastation Week.
Music remains difficult for me but I know my sister listens so while we were working I turned on a coffeehouse station that my husband enjoys. At some point, For Baby, a John Denver song that I loved in my younger days started playing. That song tenderly reminded me of the love between a parent and their child… it continues to play in my mind even now.
Not 15 minutes after my sister left last night, my grief demanded to be let out and I founded myself crying from one of the rawest corners of my broken soul. There was no stopping this much-needed release of tears. However, prior to my meltdown, I received a phone call reminding me that I needed to stop by the pharmacy before 9:00 p.m. Despite it being overcast, I grabbed the only sunglasses I could find quickly which were my pre-Devaststion Day Elton John(ish) sunglasses to cover my swollen eyes.
I had to pass the cemetery on my way to the pharmacy so of course I drove in well aware that I was trespassing since it was after hours. As I drove down that now familiar road, I once again found myself in the middle of another meltdown. As I confessed to my friend last night, all I could think about as I was crying is “I don’t want my Amy to be dead.” I despise living without her. Oh how I wish I could change this done deal.
After leaving the cemetery, I drove up to the pick-up window at the pharmacy. A young girl at the window noticed the large landscape wall hanging in the backseat and enthusiastically shared how much she liked it. Something about the way she looked at me reminded me of Amy. No make up, so natural with a pure spirit. Earlier in the day, I had purchased this for my son’s house, but later decided it was not a good fit. Without a second thought, I asked her if she wanted it and being wise in the ways of this world we live in, she suspiciously asked me how much? It’s free for you I told her and asked her again if she wanted it to which she responded by shyly nodding her head without speaking. So, I grabbed my medicine and drove around to find a parking space and marched right into the pharmacy carrying this large landscape while still hiding behind my oversized sunglasses although my shiny nose probably gave me away … When she spotted me, again she beamed and shyly thanked me. As I walked back to my car, I thought to myself: “for you, baby.”
Always remembering Amy.