The Memory Chest

Grief affords no rest for the weary. I have emotionally numbed myself out over the last several days. It has been completely subconscious, but a welcome respite from the two incredibly difficult weeks that preceded it. I also have had some writer's (blogger's?) block.

It has been COLD. Four nights below freezing, to be exact, which broke records here in Phoenix. The cold has been a distraction: we had to cover some of our plants and pick all of our citrus fruit. Now, I have to figure out what to do with said citrus fruit (does anyone want some lemons?). Our ficus trees are now too big to cover and were quite damaged from the freeze. They look awful: like the way I have been feeling. Fortunately, Weston's tree is just fine because it is dormant right now.

I ran 14 miles on Saturday, skipping over patches of ice in the beginning. Before I set out, I had to Google what to wear during long runs in freezing temperatures. In other words, our everyday lives have definitely been outside of routine.

But, can the numbness continue? No, no. Now I am getting sick. And Shannon has been battling illness off and on for over a week. I have learned that bereaved parents generally feel sicker for the rest of their lives, so here it comes. Even if my heart gets a break, the grief will find some way to manifest itself.

Consistent with the emotional numbness, I have been putting off doing certain things with Weston's chest. It is beautiful, large, and prominently displayed in our family room at the end of a long hallway, so it is visible from many places in our house. It is full of gifts, blankets, clothing we thought he would wear, hospital supplies, condolence cards, the sweater I was wearing when he died, etc. It is hopelessly disorganized.

There are some things I need to do. I need to find Weston's handprints to give to someone. This person is not pressuring me by any means, but I want to get it done. But I can't find them. I'm not too alarmed at this point, because I have been very careful to put Weston's things in safe places, but I am definitely wondering where they are. But I cannot bring myself to go through that chest right now. My heart cannot handle it.

To combat the aforementioned writer's/blogger's block, I was going to blog on another portion of Weston's memorial service. Months ago, I talked about a poem that was read, and I do eventually want to blog about everything read or done at his service.

But, wouldn't you know it, I can't remember what else we did. Grief does that too: it makes one forget things, even things as important as what was done at one's son's funeral. Fortunately, the entire service is recorded, in writing. But...the papers are in the chest. I do not want to go through the chest. So tonight, I can't blog about anything beyond my intentions and my unwillingness (inability?) to follow through with them.

Weston's six-month birthday has passed, and the six-month anniversary of his death is approaching at the end of this month. I have been wondering how I am going to handle that day and what we are going to do. I am not emotionally up to...I don't even know what. But, as of this afternoon, I have my answer: jury duty.

I have always wanted to sit on a jury; it would be fascinating to see how a trial looks from a lay perspective. But I think this is a criminal trial (judging by the courthouse I have been summoned to). Given my background, current emotional state, and the fact that I will probably just feel sorry for the defendant (unless the crime involved a child), I'll get booted immediately, I'm sure. But at least I will have a way to pass the time that day.

That's all I want right now: just pass the time. Exist. Survive. Until...who knows? Weston will still be dead. I know my goal is not very New-Year's-Resolution-y of me. But time is relentless. This freezing spell is the complete opposite of the triple-digit heat we experienced during Weston's life and death. We are in a different year. You can't get much further than that.

My dreams are inching closer to Weston. The other night I dreamed about someone I know who has also lost a child: someone I never would have met otherwise. It's a far cry from seeing my sweet baby in my dreams, but it's something. I'll take it.

Caroline is cute as ever. She is now the leader and organizer of daily after-dinner dance parties. She puts on a big poufy tutu (given to her the weekend Weston died), gets the music going, and leads us around the table in a dance. It is beyond hilarious. And this morning she crawled into bed with me for a full hour. Being an energetic and independent three-year-old, this is prime cuddling time. One of my big pillows was on the other side of her. When she got out of bed later, she said, "That was my little nest." Be still, my heart.

While I might be barely existing in my mind and heart, that sweet little girl pulls me beyond mere survival. Otherwise, I might just go curl up in Weston's memory chest myself. I can't help but smile and laugh when I'm with Caroline. She deserves the same mother she would have if Weston was alive. I can only hope that being that mother will make Caroline happy and Weston proud.

P.S. Just in case you're wondering, the car was sitting in the garage when I took this picture.