Posted in A mother's heartache, A mother's love, Agony, death, Grief, Heartache, Life Lesson, Loss, Love, My son, New normal, Pain, Sadness, Son, Tales from the Cabbage Patch, Writing

this

My baby is still not home with me. This has me frantic with worry. It is similar to when the boys were teenagers and I would be lying in bed waiting to hear the back door creek open so that I knew they were home safe and sound after a night out with their friends. This worry, however, is a kazillion times worse. It makes me sick to my stomach. I don’t sleep because I am wondering where he is right at this very moment. I need to know where he is. I need to know that he is on his way back to me. I need proof that this is truly happening. I need. I need. I need.

All I do is pace. I can’t sit still, yet, I can’t accomplish anything either. My FitBit hasn’t had to remind to get my hourly steps in because I am way ahead of its schedule. It must wonder just what the hell has happened to me because, prior to this, it has had to remind me to get my steps in way more times than I’d care to admit. I will soon have a path worn in the floor.

I have fallen off the sugar wagon with an explosive thud. Mark and I had given up sugary treats and desserts back in September and now I can’t shovel it into me fast enough. There have been so many delicious pies and cakes and other delectable goodies delivered to our house and, since I know they are there, I cannot stay out of them. The more I eat, the more I want. The more I devour it, the more I berate myself. I had two pieces pie for breakfast the other day. Pie! For the love of God and all things holy, what is the matter with me?

It hit me in the early hours of this morning. Each and everyone of these baked goods has been made and delivered with love. Wonderful, kind and generous people are reaching out to me in ways that I will never be able to adequately express just what their kindness has meant to me. The best I can say right now is that you are sustaining me. Food and words and cards and messages of condolences and sharing your memories of Dylan with me are filling me up and making me feel as whole as I possibly can right now. You are making the excruciating pain of his loss somewhat easier to bear. Thank you for that.

I debate about whether I should be sharing this with you. Maybe it’s too much. Maybe it’s too raw. Maybe it will help somebody else going through this horrible, devastating and excruciating grief. All I know is that I am driven by the written word and if I do not put my thoughts and feelings to paper, I will lose this moment forever. I cannot lose another thing in my life right now. I am barely existing as it is and one more loss, whether minuscule or not, could be the very thing that pushes me over the edge.

I feel like I am rambling. I feel like I am lost in the deepest chasm there is on this earth and I am never going to get out of it. My mind wanders and I zone out when I know I should be paying attention. I can’t help it. My world has been turned upside down and it is never going to be the same again. I know that I will have to adjust to a new normal, a new normal that I would do anything to turn the clock back on so that I wouldn’t have to go through it. It’s wishful thinking, I know, but the reality of my new existence scares the ever living daylights right out of me.

Nothing in life prepares you for this moment. Every challenge, every painful experience and every stupid little thing I thought was a big thing up until I heard the words, “Dylan’s gone,” was absolutely positively nothing in comparison to this. This. This is raw. This is excruciating. This is the absolute worst.

This.

Thank you for bearing with me. Thank you for listening. Thank you for being my calm in a raging storm that feels like I am going to be trapped in forever. Thank you for telling me that once Dylan’s celebration of life events are over and how, when everyone else’s lives go back to normal, you will be there for me because, goodness knows, I am going to need you if I am ever going to survive this.

This.

I will survive.

This.