It rained six years ago on this date. I spent that day running errands and fielding phone calls. I sat on the first step of the stairs to the basement and calmly spoke to the undertaker in Minnesota about your flight home. I remember there being two of me. One of us sat on the step clutching the yellow legal pad taking notes and the other me stood outside my body watching and screaming. How could I be talking about the transport of your body from a funeral home in Minnesota to a funeral home in Maryland? The nausea I felt then has never left me. I eat a lot of dry popcorn.
I remember looking at the flight times and realizing that your father would be flying into BWI at the same you were being flown in, I wanted to be there, but it wasn’t possible. Undertakers went to pick you up at the airport. Justin, how did we get to that place? Never again would we wait with anticipation for you to come home. I thought of how you were traveling home, not in passenger class, but in the cold dark belly of the plane. So alone. And why after six years is this rising to the surface?
I was glad to see your father walk through the door, he had made a sling shot trip to Washington State to tell Ryan you were dead. We stood in the kitchen for a few moments knowing you were on your way to the funeral home in Sykesville. You don’t recover from those moments. The most you hope for is that they soften and find a place to rest. Until they awaken and rise like some sort of specter demanding attention.
Your dad and I still can’t say your name to each other, my voice cracks when I say your name to him or when I try to say it to Ryan. I can say your name to other people, but not to those closest.
I remember we wrote a list of what we needed to do to prepare for your viewing and funeral. My mind kept stealing back to wondering if your body had arrived, were you just down the road?
The anniversary is the start of several days of phasing in and out of the present moment to reliving those days. The clarity that jumps out in my brain takes my breath away, everything fires at once, smells, sights, emotions, the raw pain, it starts a cascade of memories. I forget what I am doing, the disorientation is exhausting. I keep feel like I am forgetting something, something I didn’t do.
I did neglect something. I didn’t view your body. I regret not holding you one last time. I regret not asking for a lock of your curls. I regret not being able to meet your body at the airport. Your last flight home and I didn’t pick you up.
We just have to get through this week. I start breathing better once we get to October 5th. We got through yesterday, the sixth anniversary. I disengaged from the day and partitioned the memories to a small corner of my brain. Until late last night, my defenses shut down and grief invaded like a skilled force attacking every weak point.
I long for you Justin, to see your smile, hear your laugh. All I can think about is your last flight home.
Thank you for sharing this. You describe so well how I felt last fall in the days and weeks after my 13-year old daughter’s death. And how I know I’ll be feeling again soon as we get closer to the first anniversary. The reliving of the week before Clara died is something I still do regularly. I can’t seem to help myself even though it puts me in a very dark place. I will say though that I am having longer strings of good days than bad days now. And that seems like the most we can hope for. Love to you and your family.
Thank you for visiting Tamara! Anniversaries are such a mixed bag, never the same year from year. Always full of grief surprises. Dark places are okay. Grief can be very dark. And sometimes we have a good day and a bad day all in the same 24 hours. And that’s totally normal. Child loss is a lifelong journey and hope does sneak back in. For us it looks very different than it did before, I had to learn to recognize hope all over again. Wishing you some gentle moments as you move towards the anniversary of the loss of your Clara. Much love to you you and your house.
When I first discovered your blog I found it difficult to read. I have an only son who means the world to me and sometimes I cannot bear to share your grief. I cry tears of empathy as I read your words and shudder to think… I can hardly bear it when he is sick. When we give them life we have no idea what is in store for them…or for us. Despite having never actually met, I feel as if we are friends. I have no words to offer comfort – there probably are none. But I know that your writing is cathartic and you will get through this week and many others. Little by little, joy reappears in your life – accept it when it comes. Be kind to yourselves during this difficult time and know that you will emerge stronger on the other side. ((hugs))
Terri, my thoughts are with you. You have such a knack for expressing the absolutely indescribable. When you said you remember there were two of you, the regrets about things you would have done differently on that day, the way you can’t speak his name to those closest…I completely relate. And I’m sorry, I have to disagree with Dierdre…I didn’t even know Terri before tragedy struck, but I know that Terri will always be an inferior Terri compared to the one before and Terri’s life will always be inferior to what it would have been. That’s the reality of our lives. Love and wishes of peace to you…may Oct. 5 come quickly.
So very very sorry for your loss. Thankful for your words describing the feelings surrounding the anniversary. October is the month of my sister’s and brother in kaw’s death. I relive the day of and days after every year. Peace to you and your family.
Oh Peg, thinking of you as you move into this month of October. I am so very sorry for your loss as well. Be good to you, this grief gig is exhausting. Wishing you some gentle moments this month. Thank you for your visit.
. 💜. (that’s all I wanted to say but it told me that my comment was too short)
Don’t you love technology! I love you too.
Terri. My heart is reaching out to you. Why the flight is coming back to you now, the dark underbelly of the plane (oh such painful thoughts) is part of my mystery of grief, the deranged spiral of it, memories coming in and out of focus. The fact that you can’t say your son’s name to those closest without your voice cracking is the kind of detail that is grips my heart. No mother should ever have to bury a child. But you did, you had to, and now you write your way through, you feel your way through. What other option is there my friend. xoxo
No other option, none. I have stuffed it down, tried to pretty it up – and all it did was make it heavier. So we write. And hit send! You have inspired me. Polishing has its place, but sometimes we just have to write. Thank you for standing in the words with me, I treasure your company!
Oh Terri. Sacred words, every one.
Jackie, thank you! You have been so much on my mind. Everything is out of balance. I missed you this month!