Where does my strength come from?
When the funeral was over I had a moment of acknowledging that I'd managed to get through it without a fuss. But that moment was short lived as I almost immediately wondered, "what is that weird noise?" even as I simultaneously realized it as my own self crying out with grief. That was in 1994. I sat in the front row as people filed past on their way to coffee and cookies and I was overwhelmed with the rawness of being motherless.
Today I didn't have to wonder where "that noise" was coming from... I knew it was my own voice crying out from the depths of my soul. I'd been stuffing it down ever since the moment when I'd made the last round of double checking and had paused in the doorway of my son's room. She said, "do you need anything from here?" and I murmurred, "yes;...my son..." It was then that I'd felt it rise up in my throat, felt my face twisting with the effort of swallowing it back down. 3 hours later there was no possibility of swallowing any more and so without any hint or warning it all came flooding out.
I lay there on the floor and was helpless as something far deeper than "grief" introduced itself to existence. It came like a freight train - roaring through and leaving nothing untouched in it's wake. It came like childbirth and transition: a turn-your-skin-inside-out intensity I was powerless to navigate. It came like the fury of hell itself and I lay in a fetal position while I endured the onslaught. I wasn't sure I was going to ever get up again.
But of course I did. Because that is the truth of what growing a human baby inside your body can do to your soul: it forever negates anything else except it's final product. A child needs it's mother. No matter the shape of the mother, no matter the condition of her spirit, no matter the damages inflicted upon her, she must rise up and tend to business.
And so after only a handful of hours, throat raw and burning, I rise, not even remotely drained or relieved yet of the endless amount of grieving yet to do, and I go on about the business of living. There is still the child, MY child, nay, my childREN, that have needs to meet. I am joyful to do so but the grief lies in wait taunting me with the truth that my children, created and grown within my own womb, sustained on my own heartbeat, nourished by the priceless fluid from my body, are no longer mine.
Helpless, choice-less, defeated. And I spend the next hours blinking back the bits of leftover anguish beading up on my eyelashes while I smile and engage in small talk. In quiet moments I hear myself whimpering without warning. I swallow hard, a lot...
and now the time is again the time for the floodgates of devastation to open.
This devastation will not be denied...
Today I didn't have to wonder where "that noise" was coming from... I knew it was my own voice crying out from the depths of my soul. I'd been stuffing it down ever since the moment when I'd made the last round of double checking and had paused in the doorway of my son's room. She said, "do you need anything from here?" and I murmurred, "yes;...my son..." It was then that I'd felt it rise up in my throat, felt my face twisting with the effort of swallowing it back down. 3 hours later there was no possibility of swallowing any more and so without any hint or warning it all came flooding out.
I lay there on the floor and was helpless as something far deeper than "grief" introduced itself to existence. It came like a freight train - roaring through and leaving nothing untouched in it's wake. It came like childbirth and transition: a turn-your-skin-inside-out intensity I was powerless to navigate. It came like the fury of hell itself and I lay in a fetal position while I endured the onslaught. I wasn't sure I was going to ever get up again.
But of course I did. Because that is the truth of what growing a human baby inside your body can do to your soul: it forever negates anything else except it's final product. A child needs it's mother. No matter the shape of the mother, no matter the condition of her spirit, no matter the damages inflicted upon her, she must rise up and tend to business.
And so after only a handful of hours, throat raw and burning, I rise, not even remotely drained or relieved yet of the endless amount of grieving yet to do, and I go on about the business of living. There is still the child, MY child, nay, my childREN, that have needs to meet. I am joyful to do so but the grief lies in wait taunting me with the truth that my children, created and grown within my own womb, sustained on my own heartbeat, nourished by the priceless fluid from my body, are no longer mine.
Helpless, choice-less, defeated. And I spend the next hours blinking back the bits of leftover anguish beading up on my eyelashes while I smile and engage in small talk. In quiet moments I hear myself whimpering without warning. I swallow hard, a lot...
and now the time is again the time for the floodgates of devastation to open.
This devastation will not be denied...
Posted by Dionne at June 16, 2009 
Categories: uncategorized
Tags: anguish parent child help strength God grief
Categories: uncategorized
Tags: anguish parent child help strength God grief
Fill me in...
What is going on? I'm very worried...
xo
LBC
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Dionne.....
I'll be praying for you today....for His peace and direction to overcome you...
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