These are not just words.
The words I share, the story I share, is not just any story.
I’ve always had a bit of a writer in me and had daydreams about publishing but I always imagined that if I actually wrote something I wanted to share with people that it would be something fun, fictional. But this blog is only in existence because Sara and George are dead. These words seep, ooze, pour, fall, and are pulled out of me. They come from my grief, my love, my disbelief, my tears, my anger, and the knot in my core that is a jumble of everything I cannot name.
These words exist because if they didn’t, I don’t know that I could. The experience of being caregiver to Sara, and of carrying and delivering George, and of saying goodbye to them both is one that needs telling and retelling and processing. I can’t keep these experiences, these truths, this pain trapped inside of me because if I did, I would implode.
The story of my story, the story of now, is that it has now been 350 days since we held our son’s body and left the hospital without him, and it has been 269 days since Sara took her last breath, and I am still so sad. Sad feels like an inadequate word. My heart is still broken. I still feel like I’m living in an alternate universe – the upside down world where things seem to be the real world, but it’s just wrong.
I used to try to soften the negative in life with “buts” – I had a crappy day but at least I get to go home to Sara. I am super tired, but I love my life. I am not looking forward to XYZ, but at least we’re going to be doing ABC this weekend. Now, no matter what I do the reality of this life is inescapable. I’m learning to use “ands” instead – using “buts” just feels dismissive and invalidating – it’s something that many of us grievers become aware of pretty quickly.
I’m still grieving, and life goes on (both the good and the bad). George should be almost 7 months old by now, and it is a beautiful morning. I miss Sara more than words can express, and I had a fun socially-distanced & masked visit with friends a few weeks ago. I feel the ache of Sara’s absence every day, worrying about how our dogs & cat perceive this new reality, and our dogs and cat make me laugh and/or smile every day. I am learning to navigate holding all of these truths every day.
This is the story of my now – Sara and George are dead, and some days it’s all too much, and other days feel manageable. I’m continuing to use these words as an escape valve for the grief and the pain and the love that would otherwise build up to unbearable pressure with nowhere to go.