I'm laid up with a bout of 'flu that's knocked me flat for the last 3 days and doesn't seem much better today. It's probably a indication of the fact that I'm physically and mentally extremely run down. The last months have been and remain very difficult. I know that recovering from the loss of Kay was never going to be a linear process, but it feels like I have gone practically back to the beginning. The pain is unbearable, I have been in tears so often recently.
A few weeks ago a colleague rushed into my office, very upset, to say that his daughter had been diagnosed with diabetes and that he had to rush to the hospital to hear more about the subject. This had a dramatic effect on me, I flashed straight back to the two times in my life when I myself had receieved such news - the last time also at work. My instant reaction was "if only Kay had had diabetes". I know that I should probably have put my colleagues situation first, after all his news was no small thing. But I was absolutely blindsided by the flashback, by the scream of desperation and longing that I felt, by the bone deep need to change everything. If only Kay had had diabetes.
I spent the rest of the day struggling with tears, sat at my desk, behind my computer. I couldn't concentrate at all, I just tried unsuccessfully not to cry. When it was time to go home, I got in the car and drove through a veil of tears and when I got home I collapsed on the sofa and sobbed my heart out. I miss her so very much, oh if only I could find the words to do those feelings justice.
Life has been just so difficult these last months, the most difficult period since the weeks before and after Kay died. This time of year is also difficult because it was the time of hope, of the bone marrow transplant, of the days when everything seemed to be going well and the trees turned green while we watched from Kay's window. Now to watch spring set in is to be reminded that all that hope, all that investment we made in believing in a future for Kay, came to nothing. I think that if it wasn't for Lauren and Natasha, I'd be ready to find a different life. If my heart stopped of its own accord, I would welcome the silence. DNR. Organs available.
I suppose that I should really reflect on my own words here and conclude that I'm very depressed and do something about it. Part of the depression is perhaps temporary in that I'm so run down and not well at the moment, I guess. But part seems inescapable - no matter what, I'm doomed to have to carry the loss of Kay with me for the rest of my life and that seems utterly unbearable at the moment. So I'm really not sure what there is left to be done to lift the depression. I've done all the talking to the psychologist that seems helpful. I've burnt the ears off all of my friends. Right now, it seems that nothing has helped, that I'm still bathed in inconsolable, uncontrollable grief.
Even after 18 months I can't believe that she's gone. I still have the feeling that she's just away for a weekend and will walk in the door any minute. This really can't be happening, this really can't be my life. I want to wake up, I want to go back, I want anything that will take this pain and suffering away.
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Oh Rob,
ReplyDeleteI have been checking the blog every day because I felt sure your silence was indicative of pain.
So much to answer here, and I know I'm not the person to come up with answers. But you have certainly not 'burned the ears off' your friends - I'm sure I'm not alone in thinking I'd love to listen - even if you feel you've said it before. If it helps, just say it – I can even understand silence.
And 'even after 18 months...' it's no time at all! Learning to live with the ache is something I can only imagine, but when I try, I think it must be like learning to live after a limb has been amputated (something I've seen documented, so yes, only second-hand knowledege) - sometimes the pain is physical, sometimes people report that they can still feel the limb, and occasionally they manage a day when they cope - but more often the days are gruelling and the amputee feels they can't face a day further without it.
I too have been thinking a lot about the plane and the volcanic ash - and the hope that was in our hearts at that time. There are no answers and no words to make the pain go away.
Rob, you are in my heart so often, words are not always available but the wordless thoughts are there.
Hang in there Honey
Much love and many hugs to all
Linda xxx
Hello Rob,
ReplyDeleteLinda's response made so much sense. Learning to live without a "limb" and feeling that is still there, but cannot touch it. Our children were (are) a part of us. How is it that we can no longer feel them?
I too have flashbacks. The phone rings late at night, a knock on the door, a siren in the distance, hearing or seeing a medic helicopter overhead. Anxiety and panic come over me and I fear at times I will collapse. On May 12, it will be 4 years since Chip left us. Yes, I know that it would me easier to make an exit, I understand that feeling. Then, I remember that I am loved and needed by others. I remember my youngest son hugging me tightly a few days after Chip left us saying, "Mom, don't leave me, I need you."
Rob my friend, you are needed and loved too. Look around you.
, my friend, you are needed and you are loved
Hi Debbie, Just to be clear in case my kids read this, I'm not suggesting that I'm suicidal. By no means. I love Lauren and Nattie way too much for that to be an option. But on the other hand, the loss of Kay makes life permanently abnormal and that is very difficult to accept. Thanks for your support. Rob.
DeleteLinda's comment makes so much sense to me. Learning to live without a limb. Our children were (are) a part, an extension of us. We yearn to reach out and touch them,
ReplyDeleteI understand that feeling that at times it would be easier to exit, then I remember that I am loved and needed. I hear my youngest son's voice saying to me, "Mom, don't leave me, I need you."
Rob, you are needed, you are loved. Look around you. Take those words into your heart to keep you strong.
Your friend,
Debbie