Just Another Day

Something malfunctioned, and this post from the other day disappeared. I'll try to recreate it below.

Today was hard. I haven't had a day like this in quite a while. It wasn't a significant anniversary or anything: it was just another day, like every other day from the past seven weeks and two days, without my son in the world. The sadness brings me to the point of desperation: how can I go on with this much pain?

I cried and cried and cried. I tried everything to make the pain go away: working out, cooking, grocery shopping, reading the Bible, scheduling a hair appointment and social engagements, talking to my BFF, taking Caroline to Starbucks, etc. Nothing helped.

Last night I read Weston's discharge report from the pile of medical records (addressed to Weston Yoder) that came in the mail while we were out of town. It is essentially the medical story of his death. I understood the report more easily than I understood the early-morning call from the physician on that unspeakably horrible day. I still have many questions about how and why Weston died, but they will have to wait until my meeting with the physician, which should occur in the next week or so. Anyway, reading the medical summary just makes me want to hit the delete button and then retype the whole story, as if it could alter what has already happened. It just seems so easy to rewrite the whole story.

Sometimes I think I'm still in shock or denial about what happened. A few weeks ago, before I went to bed, I told myself I needed to check on the kids, plural. My children obviously never lived under the same roof, so, in addition to the obvious fact that my son is dead, that thought makes no sense for other reasons as well. Sometimes I think I'm still pregnant and freak out after I've had a beer or a glass of wine. And I think about my upcoming trip to the hospital this week and wonder if I will see Weston in the NICU. Sometimes I think Weston will come home at the end of October, around his due date. Sometimes I think that will all be together for the holidays. Come to think of it, if the Mayans were right about that whole 2012 thing, we will be.

There is not much more to say about this. On an intellectual level, I know that there is a reason why God allowed my son to die. I know that there is a reason for my suffering. But my mind is unable to relay that information to my heart. Not that it would help; I don't care that my suffering will make me a better person. I would rather be without the depth of character and have Weston here. (As a side note, it remains to be seen whether I actually do become a better person. It is going to take me a long time to be anything besides a complete train wreck.)

Grief is a lonely, isolating, and selfish monster, and most days I cannot help but feed the beast.

But this is why I blog and share my heart with the world:

There is no grief like the grief that does not speak.
~Henry Wadsworth Longfellow

He that conceals his grief finds no remedy for it.
~Turkish proverb

Tearless grief bleeds inwardly.
~Christian Nevell Bovee