Every single person that suffers grief has a different path to follow. These writings have been my journey. I have written less because of two reasons. I feel no hope. Second, I had been looking for a job and I was afraid my writings would impede my efforts. I have the job now. I had to. We are a two income family. People asked me are you ready to go back to work? No, I will never be ready. Work is too normal and I am no longer normal. I am very lucky that I found a position with a local non profit running a large walk event. It is something I can believe in and so far the people I work with are high quality. But to go from spending the majority of my day sitting on the couch staring into space to working full time has had its challenges. First I have to build up my physical stamina. Second is having to interact with people. People everywhere, every day. In the first two weeks I have lost count how many times I have been asked “How many kids do you have?”. I talked to a friend that lost her son a few months after Hayley. We both agree this is the most difficult question. If I say I have a son and not mention Hayley, then I am not being true to myself. When I say I have a son and I lost my daughter the reaction can be cringe worthy. Most people are shocked, apologize and don’t know what to say. I usually end up brushing it off and that makes me feel like I am brushing Hayley under the rug. I say it’s okay, don’t worry. But it’s not okay, it will never be okay. So answering that question has been tough. On the other hand there are tons of people I have met that have no idea what I am going through. That is almost refreshing. I can be someone new to them. But it always comes up.
My last job was brutal. I lived and breathed the cause only to find I was disposable. Grief has taught me what is important and what isn’t. I don’t sweat the small stuff because it is all small. My goals are staggering and I am not freaking out. It is what it is. This is what I say to myself often. I have found that I flip a switch in the morning and as soon as I am done for the day I flip it off. What happens is that the grief can and has broken through my defense. The switch slips to on and I have to quickly flip it back off. I am not going to let grief impact my job. I have responsibilities financially to the family and to those that hired me in spite of my grief. Yes, I let it show during the interviews. I wanted them to know what they were getting, I wanted them to want the real me, grief and all. I am determined to manage my grief. That is where I am at the management phase.
The management phase is exhausting. You have to actually make conscious decisions to block the pain. The problem is that like a dam the grief will build up behind the wall. What I need to do now is to figure out how to safely let that pressure go. I still have not done the laundry in her hamper. I can’t see the urn without crying. April is tough. It’s her birthday month and happens to be national organ donor awareness month. She would be 21 this month. She would be so excited. I know Scott feels this month too. We still go to bed between 7 and 8 every single night. I get up at 7 every morning. That is how we manage our grief, we sleep through half of it every day. Henry is never home. He is always with his friends or working. It feels like an empty nest. I don’t blame him, we are no longer fun. This is his path, his way of dealing with his grief. But I miss my kids. I miss when they needed me. No one needs me now. I realize now work will help. I am needed at work. It’s something. Friends have moved on, they have to live their own life. No one wants to live mine. You feel like you should be getting better but you’re not. You may never be better you will just be different. No one asks, they don’t want to know. I am lucky to have friends that have lost children. What a horrible sentence. But it’s true, if I need to check in with someone that understands I have that available. I had breakfast with one recently and you would think it would just make me feel more sad. But it didn’t. Our little club made me feel better. There is comfort in knowing that someone gets it.
So if you want to know how I am; I am broken. I am working. I am staring into space. I hug my dogs. I go to bed. That is my day. It’s sad.