The aftermath of Samuel’s death is harder than I thought. Losing Samuel has been all the pain you would imagine…crushing sadness, emptiness in every corner of the house, missing him all the time. But I’ve been caught off guard by how an ugly change has curled it’s fingers into every other area of our family. We haven’t just lost Samuel, we’ve lost the rest of our lives as well.
I feel as if I have died too, only I’m still here, occupying space, and people still expect things of me. I have a hard time engaging Jeremy and the kids. I just don’t have the mental energy to listen to them, to play, to laugh. I am tired, so tired. I catch myself sitting at the table and staring, while everyone else eats and talks. The world feels so heavy it’s literally hard to smile. And my mothering tasks suffer too. We’ve had days where we’ve eaten cereal for all three meals. When the kids can’t find clean clothes I tell them to pick something off the floor. I don’t want them to be in therapy someday talking about when their little brother died and their mom disappeared into an unending pit of sadness.
I have two kinds of days. Some are plain sad days, just sadness. I miss Samuel and I cry half the day. On these days I have some grace to extend to others. I recognize that people don’t engage us because they don’t know what to do. Or I know that people care, but understand their need to not to get overwhelmed by our sadness. They need to move on with their lives, that’s good. This is our fate, not anyone else’s.
The other days are more dark. I’m angry, hopeless, confused, guilty, but mostly angry. And on those days it’s hard to see that we are anything but alone. People cared when the accident happened, of course. There was some sort of morbid allure, people were appalled, thankful that it wasn’t them, grieved for us. But then the funeral was over and everyone quickly moved on to get away from the impossibleness of it. And we were left alone. And I’m furious. I don’t know where God is, I don’t know why he did this, I’m mad that I’m supposed to trust him and turn to him for comfort when he’s the one who is breaking us. That doesn’t make sense.
But I’m also ashamed of my anger, because it’s unfair to ask anyone to feel this with us. It’s so deep and overwhelming.
I’m trapped here. Surprised that at the end of each day, I’m still somehow breathing.