Thursday, September 24, 2015

Scattered Thoughts On a Thursday Night

I feel like it has been forever since I was capable of transferring thoughts to pen and paper. Time has continued to move swiftly on by without hesitation. The waves of grief have still reared their ugly head but not quite as frequently.

This weekend marked 1 year 9 months and also kicked off the beginning to another football season which was one of Adrienne's favorite times of the year! The cool crisp Fall air, the smell of meat on the grill and cheers echoing through out  the house while everyone supports their favorite teams. Everything about Fall reminds me of her especially since that means the holidays are fast approaching! This is so damn scary to me and I cant even grasp the fact that this will be the 3rd Christmas without her, the second Thanksgiving and the Second full calendar year since I have seen or touched that beautiful face.

So much has happened since she left, yet at times I feel like time has stood still and I've been left confused like a dog chasing his tail. At times I've tried taking it all on solo, others leaning on friends for help and others taking any sort of support that I can get. I feel as if there comes a point when everyone expects you to be normal, act normal and be totally comfortable in this new skin or life so to speak. How in the world can you put a time frame on something like losing a wife, a husband or any other person near and dear to your heart? I've become increasingly better at not caring what others think about me or whatever actions I choose to take in this walk.
Just recently I had a lunch date with my in laws and had to share this photo. At random we each got a diet coke to go with our lunch. As we sat there eating and talking I noticed pops' can said DAD on it. I smiled and continued on with my meal. I noticed that mine said MOM on it. I looked at Mrs. Jackie, smiled, and said, "I think that I got your can."  She had no idea they even had the writing on them until I mentioned that. She took a look at hers and it read, SOUL MATE... I will never get tired of seeing these signs that make me feel her presence.


I want to share this reading that a friend recently sent to me. It really hit home and was very meaningful to me.


"Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see."

"As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.


This photo is of a post that Adrienne made the day she was diagnosed with melanoma.
"In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life."

"Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out."

1 comment:

  1. yes - this really is what life has been like for me too since loosing my best friend, confidant, mother of our children. I am still just 'hanging on' as those waves crash in on me. It seems like when I have a vision of us - my heart stops briefly - and in that moment just cries out - trying to find the missing piece.

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