11/23/2022
9 Weeks
Grief hurts us all.
Bill’s death was shocking. Many assumed we were prepared that it was a possibility. We weren’t. Bill was doing amazingly well. We thought everything was great, and his prognosis for the future was positive and filled with hope. We were planning for the next year and the year after, and five years later and ten years down the road. We were planning to enjoy more times with the grands at the lake and on vacations. They had it in their heads he was going to ride the roller coasters again. They were even formulating plans how to get him on them!
Now, we relive the fun memories of those times gone by. Sometimes, I feel as if I need to pick up where Bill left off. Watching the sadness on our grand babies’ faces would break even the hardest of hearts. Listening to them reminisce makes me sad, but their laughter at one of his foolish shenanigans makes me smile. It’s such an oxymoron.
One of the younger grandsons buried a bottle in his yard and marked it with an orange flag. He told me he was pretending it was Poppa so he (poppa) would be close to him. He once said I should have told Poppa he couldn’t ride his motorcycle that day. Many times I’ve thought that…what if I had only done one thing different? Would it have changed the outcome of that terrible Saturday? I don’t know. I just don’t know.
How I wish we could turn back the clocks and change that day. Our grandchildren would still have their Poppa and I’d still have Bill. The accident changed Bill physically, but he was still himself. Even though he was in the wheelchair, we still had him…and that was better than not having him at all. Now he’s gone, and they grieve because they loved their Poppa. They knew he loved them. In many ways, I feel like I need to make up for their loss…do more, love them more, just be more.
There are days that praying and being positive take so much work. There are times when tears just hover in my eyes, waiting to trickle at the mere mention of anything remotely “Bill” related. Many times, it is simply sheer discipline that pushes me onward. It’s knowing that God really carries not only me, but my family in his hands. It’s knowing that even when I’m beyond words, God’s not angry with me for being weak.
Just as there are the weak and sad days, there are the strong ones. There are days when I accomplish something so minor to some but feel so major to me. It took me seven weeks to fold the clothes after he died. No lie. I dreaded folding them because Bill’s things were in there. Instead, I just kept piling them up until it looked like Mt. Everest’s sibling erupted on my couch. My therapist suggested having Stephanie take Bill’s things out of the pile. She was willing, but I needed to climb that mountain. Each morning for about two weeks, I’d get up fifteen minutes earlier and force myself to fold some of those clothes. Some days it was just a shirt, other days it was several things. When I finally reached the last article, I felt triumphant. Exhilarated. I conquered that mountain. As silly as it sounds, mastering that laundry felt like a milestone to me. Who knew folding laundry could be therapeutic?
One achievement down, thousands to go. I won’t let grief beat me. I have so much to live for…much to thrive for…and grandchildren to love.
Going through this healing process isn’t easy, but I refuse to let go. There’s just too much at stake to be that selfish.
