What is “Normal” after your only child dies?
Normal is reliving the last day you spent with your child over and over, and wondering if you will ever forget.
Normal is wasting countless hours in front of the noisy TV or computer because silence is deafening.
Normal is seeing your child in the face of every child who remotely resembles yours, and feeling a grief so strong it knocks the breath out of your lungs.
Normal is having insomnia again and again because the sound of a thousand ‘what if's’ parade noisily through your head.
Normal is popping pills because you know your mental health depends on it.
Normal is facing the difficult task each year of how to honor your child's date of death and birthday, and wondering how to survive these days.
Normal is having tears behind every smile because someone very special is missing from all the important events in your life.
Normal is feeling your heart soar and then crash at the sight of something you know your child would have loved, if only he were still around to enjoy it.
Normal is telling new friends and co-workers the fact that you lost a child, seeing the shock, sadness and pity in their eyes, and then getting to continue on with your day as if nothing is wrong.
Normal is being impatient with everyone because you just don’t have it in you to be patient anymore.
Normal is crying every day for two years, and then one day realizing you haven’t cried in over a week…and then you cry because you feel guilty.
Normal is lying to everyone by telling them you are fine, because the lie is easier for them to hear…and easier to say.
Normal is knowing people are afraid to mention your late child. Normal is mentioning your late child often (but not too often) to make sure that others remember him.
Normal is grieving for weeks, months, and years…a mother’s grief is eternal.
Normal is hiding all the things that have become "normal" for you so that everyone around you will think that you are "normal."
Jonathan's birthday was a few days ago. He would have been 23 years old. This is how I choose to honor him this year.
Normal is wasting countless hours in front of the noisy TV or computer because silence is deafening.
Normal is seeing your child in the face of every child who remotely resembles yours, and feeling a grief so strong it knocks the breath out of your lungs.
Normal is having insomnia again and again because the sound of a thousand ‘what if's’ parade noisily through your head.
Normal is popping pills because you know your mental health depends on it.
Normal is facing the difficult task each year of how to honor your child's date of death and birthday, and wondering how to survive these days.
Normal is having tears behind every smile because someone very special is missing from all the important events in your life.
Normal is feeling your heart soar and then crash at the sight of something you know your child would have loved, if only he were still around to enjoy it.
Normal is telling new friends and co-workers the fact that you lost a child, seeing the shock, sadness and pity in their eyes, and then getting to continue on with your day as if nothing is wrong.
Normal is being impatient with everyone because you just don’t have it in you to be patient anymore.
Normal is crying every day for two years, and then one day realizing you haven’t cried in over a week…and then you cry because you feel guilty.
Normal is lying to everyone by telling them you are fine, because the lie is easier for them to hear…and easier to say.
Normal is knowing people are afraid to mention your late child. Normal is mentioning your late child often (but not too often) to make sure that others remember him.
Normal is grieving for weeks, months, and years…a mother’s grief is eternal.
Normal is hiding all the things that have become "normal" for you so that everyone around you will think that you are "normal."
Jonathan's birthday was a few days ago. He would have been 23 years old. This is how I choose to honor him this year.
Labels: grief
posted by Patricia at
Tuesday, January 15, 2008
1 Comments:
Heart wrenching, MommaSquid.
I never fully got that until I had children of my own.
I don't know how you or my mother do it. My brother commited suicide about 10 years ago...he was 22.
I admire the fact that women like you and my mother are able to find the will to breath each day.
You are my hero.
MikeyV
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Anonymous, At
2:25 PM
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