One year. One year since time became forever cut in two: before
Derek died and after. How can it be one year since we held him as he breathed
his last? One year since I held his hand, trying unsuccessfully to keep it warm
as I felt his warmth slip away. How would I survive?
At that moment, I couldn't
fathom possibly living a whole year without the child I carried inside me, the
one to whom I gave birth, the one I loved so dearly and for whom I fought so
hard. I still can't fathom it. How can he be gone?
A year is both a short time and an eternity.
I've discovered that grief is really just love that has nowhere
to go. Though I love my husband and Kristen and my family and friends, each
receives an individual love that cannot be transferred to any other person or
object. So my love for Derek cannot be transferred to anyone or anything else.
It has nowhere to go, and bottled up love is grief.
Grief is very physical. It makes my arms physically ache to hold
him. Tears are always just beneath the surface. My heart literally hurts. And
for the first seven months, I found it difficult to breathe. (I've since
learned from others on this same journey that difficulty breathing is a
universal phenomenon for mothers who have lost a child.) My love for Derek
is still as strong as when he was here, and the fact that he is gone and I
cannot shower my love on him is what makes my grief so painful.
Sometimes my brain plays tricks on me. Did Derek really exist?
Or was it all a dream? But my pain is what brings me the proof that he was here
and he was mine and I loved him and he loved me.
I miss: feeling his cheek against mine. Hearing his voice and his
giggle. Listening to him play the piano. Seeing his creations spread across the
living room floor. Listening to him work out a problem with his buddies – math
or structural. His motivation to get things done. Seeing him reading his Bible
on the couch. All the noises he could make – my house is too quiet.
Music is missing – I can’t sing. I can only cry as I listen to
the words. Our piano has gone mostly untouched.
Things people have said to me that meant the most: “Our hope is
greater than our grief” and “When you can, you will.”
My grief was greater than my
hope for a while. Not that I didn't have hope, but the memories of how much
Derek suffered nearly drowned me. They haunted me incessantly. It has been hard
to think of the happy memories, of which there are many. It isn't that I've
lost my hope; I haven't. My hope is more real to me now than it ever was.
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