(From my phone) And I’m here, still.
...I’m trying hard to keep it together. My husband is pulling me off the ceiling sometimes, as I’m finding I’m having chest pains and horrible urges to sob loudly.
When I see her, I will be cheerful and not dwell on the fact that she is most likely dying and going to die an awful death. But in my alone moments, I don’t handle things so well.
Took a short nature walk today and it really helped. Saw a flying squirrel and an ornate box turtle. The poor turtle was stuck between a rock and a hard place, literally, but got free. The flying squirrel froze when it saw a human. I tried to be still, to disturb it as little as possible.
The walking paths were snow-covered, which is surprising since it is still autumn.
Sitting at home, done with grading, waiting for night to fall. Flashes of red from outside. Three male and three female cardinals picking seeds up from the bush in back of the house. Those brief flashes of red are so beautiful and so life affirming somehow.
I stand up to look outside, and they fly away. They must have been able to sense my presence, perhaps see my shadow.
And it helps. And the sunset helps. And the trees and the birds and friends and loved ones help.
But it is impossible to inoculate yourself from grief. At least I think so, if you are a loving person, the loss of a loved one will hurt greatly.
About 13 to 14 years ago, my family and I suffered the loss of many. Some died from a freak set of accidents, some from cancer, some from old age, etc. But it was so many in a short period of time that I was truly overwhelmed and didn’t get a chance to really mourn the loss of most of them individually.
Of these nine losses, the loss of my best friend, Susan, my godmother, and my mother hurt the most. The others I feel bad that I have not mourned them individually; it was like a collective grief.
So I know I’m going to face a lot of pain, and if you love someone, that’s to be expected.
But not something to be looked forward to.
It’s the price of loving people and getting older, surely.
The cardinals have returned, cautiously picking out seeds from the bush behind the house.
And I’m here, still.