Beautifully written and captures how totally paradoxical life is. It’s also very familiar to me – instead of BC and AD I now measure everything in BW and AW (Before William/After William). It’s exhausting and saddening, I agree with you that you won’t ever get over it or heal but I hope that it becomes a little easier to live alongside. I’m just over a year into this particularly awful ‘journey’ and I still have days where I just want to pack up and move, so we can reinvent ourselves and not be those ‘bereaved parents’. But I know that’s not something that can be changed by geography, sadly. Thank you for posting this, grief can be a lonely place but your post helps me feel a little less alone today. I hope I can do the same for you x
This is so beautiful. So vulnerably honest. I’ve often had those very thoughts when going through tragedy on a perfectly, clear, blue-sky, sunny day. I would curse the birds chirping. It’s strange how the world keeps moving around us, smugly, as we pick up our shattered selves & move on.
Thank you so much for reading and for your feedback. Yes, it is so strange. It’s like, you intellectually know all these things (that birds will keep chirping), but when you’re the one who’s shattered, it just feels different – very surreal. And it’s like you have to be in one of the situation to truly understand, which I don’t think I ever fully “got” until it was me.
Amazing post. Heartfelt, with the perfect amount of comedy to break up the sadness – the writing really mirrors the psyche. I am very sorry for your loss. Thank you for the read.
Oh Christine, This post so beautifully and tragically explains the very nature of our lives now. All of the “befores” and the “afters”, all of the reminders that life kept going.
Initially when Josie died, I had the opposite reaction. Immediately, I wanted everything to be different. I wanted it to be ten years from now with new songs on the radio and new subdivisions. I didn’t want to recognize the things around me, because I could no longer recognize my world and I wanted that to be more concrete in the things I saw around me. It didn’t make sense that my street looked the exact fucking same as when I woke up that morning, that the same stupid dent was in our mailbox and the same stupid stain was on my sweatshirt. I didn’t want to process it. Just to accept it. Somehow, I thought that would help. It didn’t. You can’t rush that lesson, that life really fucking heartbreakingly continues. And that it’s oddly normal, with lawn mowers in the background.
I think it’s the most difficult concept to this bereaved understanding, and especially for those of us bereaved parents. There are always going to be things “newer” than Josie, because is no longer growing, save for in my heart. And that is sad because it’s so unfair. Why does this building get to exist and stand, when my daughter doesn’t? Why does the construction project get to end when my pain never will?
I’m not sure that I can offer any guidance here, as it is something I continue to struggle with, only to say that there are things that have come to be in her absence, “new” things that I have seen and watched grow and contributed to, that I am grateful for. And as I continue to walk this paradox, while I am saddened by the things that are here when she is not, I hold on to such a hope that in time, I can be grateful for so many more.
Thank you for your sweet comment, Nora. I initially had that reaction too. I wanted it to be 10 years from now. I think I remember you telling me that in the hospital too, when I said I wanted to fast forward my life. And I did. I actually still do sometimes. But I know I can’t. So, now, I get angry. It’s like you said. Why does this building get to exist when Matthew doesn’t? I don’t like being stuck in this intense grief, and I want time to pass, but time passing also equals distance from Matthew’s life. So I guess my feelings are very conflicted in this regard. But at the moment, construction is making me mad. I hope, someday, I can view it more like you. I hope my faith can be strengthened that someday, I’ll be grateful for more things that have started and completed after Matthew’s death, instead of just intensely saddened and angered.
Your posts just might be saving my life after giving birth and losing my daughter December 28. We have no explanation, and while I should be getting her ready to go to my best friend’s father’s memorial service right now; instead, I am not going to that memorial because my heart is too full of pain and I’m scared of feeling more of it. So, please keep writing your blogs.
Thank you so much for your kind words, Sarah. I definitely intend to keep writing, as it’s been very therapeutic for me, and I’m glad to know you’ve found some comfort here… I’m so sorry about your best friend’s father. And I’m also so sorry you had to skip out. But I’m glad you’re being gentle with yourself. You’re in so much pain right now. So this is completely understandable. It’s perfectly reasonable to do only what you can handle both now and in the coming months. I continue to keep you and your family in my thoughts and prayers. xoxo, Christine
chickydoodles 
Beautifully written and captures how totally paradoxical life is. It’s also very familiar to me – instead of BC and AD I now measure everything in BW and AW (Before William/After William). It’s exhausting and saddening, I agree with you that you won’t ever get over it or heal but I hope that it becomes a little easier to live alongside. I’m just over a year into this particularly awful ‘journey’ and I still have days where I just want to pack up and move, so we can reinvent ourselves and not be those ‘bereaved parents’. But I know that’s not something that can be changed by geography, sadly. Thank you for posting this, grief can be a lonely place but your post helps me feel a little less alone today. I hope I can do the same for you x
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Yes, so lonely. Thank you so much for your kind comment – it does help me to feel just a little less alone today. xoxo
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This is so beautiful. So vulnerably honest. I’ve often had those very thoughts when going through tragedy on a perfectly, clear, blue-sky, sunny day. I would curse the birds chirping. It’s strange how the world keeps moving around us, smugly, as we pick up our shattered selves & move on.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much for reading and for your feedback. Yes, it is so strange. It’s like, you intellectually know all these things (that birds will keep chirping), but when you’re the one who’s shattered, it just feels different – very surreal. And it’s like you have to be in one of the situation to truly understand, which I don’t think I ever fully “got” until it was me.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Amazing post. Heartfelt, with the perfect amount of comedy to break up the sadness – the writing really mirrors the psyche. I am very sorry for your loss. Thank you for the read.
LikeLiked by 1 person
Thank you so much for reading and for your feedback. I very much appreciate it!
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Oh Christine, This post so beautifully and tragically explains the very nature of our lives now. All of the “befores” and the “afters”, all of the reminders that life kept going.
Initially when Josie died, I had the opposite reaction. Immediately, I wanted everything to be different. I wanted it to be ten years from now with new songs on the radio and new subdivisions. I didn’t want to recognize the things around me, because I could no longer recognize my world and I wanted that to be more concrete in the things I saw around me. It didn’t make sense that my street looked the exact fucking same as when I woke up that morning, that the same stupid dent was in our mailbox and the same stupid stain was on my sweatshirt. I didn’t want to process it. Just to accept it. Somehow, I thought that would help. It didn’t. You can’t rush that lesson, that life really fucking heartbreakingly continues. And that it’s oddly normal, with lawn mowers in the background.
I think it’s the most difficult concept to this bereaved understanding, and especially for those of us bereaved parents. There are always going to be things “newer” than Josie, because is no longer growing, save for in my heart. And that is sad because it’s so unfair. Why does this building get to exist and stand, when my daughter doesn’t? Why does the construction project get to end when my pain never will?
I’m not sure that I can offer any guidance here, as it is something I continue to struggle with, only to say that there are things that have come to be in her absence, “new” things that I have seen and watched grow and contributed to, that I am grateful for. And as I continue to walk this paradox, while I am saddened by the things that are here when she is not, I hold on to such a hope that in time, I can be grateful for so many more.
Love to you, friend.
xo, Nora
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Thank you for your sweet comment, Nora. I initially had that reaction too. I wanted it to be 10 years from now. I think I remember you telling me that in the hospital too, when I said I wanted to fast forward my life. And I did. I actually still do sometimes. But I know I can’t. So, now, I get angry. It’s like you said. Why does this building get to exist when Matthew doesn’t? I don’t like being stuck in this intense grief, and I want time to pass, but time passing also equals distance from Matthew’s life. So I guess my feelings are very conflicted in this regard. But at the moment, construction is making me mad. I hope, someday, I can view it more like you. I hope my faith can be strengthened that someday, I’ll be grateful for more things that have started and completed after Matthew’s death, instead of just intensely saddened and angered.
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Your posts just might be saving my life after giving birth and losing my daughter December 28. We have no explanation, and while I should be getting her ready to go to my best friend’s father’s memorial service right now; instead, I am not going to that memorial because my heart is too full of pain and I’m scared of feeling more of it. So, please keep writing your blogs.
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Thank you so much for your kind words, Sarah. I definitely intend to keep writing, as it’s been very therapeutic for me, and I’m glad to know you’ve found some comfort here… I’m so sorry about your best friend’s father. And I’m also so sorry you had to skip out. But I’m glad you’re being gentle with yourself. You’re in so much pain right now. So this is completely understandable. It’s perfectly reasonable to do only what you can handle both now and in the coming months. I continue to keep you and your family in my thoughts and prayers. xoxo, Christine
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