Grief is so hard. It’s been six months today since my world shattered. As Scott’s caregiver, I thought I had been preparing myself—months, even years, of anticipatory grief. But now I see that I was bargaining with God. “If I do everything right, he’ll rally again, and we’ll have more time. Just like the other times."
I remember logging his morphine dosage and thinking, Tomorrow, he’ll wake up. We’ll have more time to talk. I’ll get these (what I now realize were unnecessary) chores done today so I can give him my undivided attention tomorrow. Except, tomorrow never came. He was gone before morning.
The regrets are overwhelming. Things I wish I had done. Things I wish I hadn’t. Keeping quiet so he could rest instead of telling him all the things I needed to say. Staying strong and composed so everyone would think I handled it well. And now? I’m locked inside my head, my heart, and my soul—screaming with grief, sorrow, and fear.
I wish I could be raw and real. But I can’t. The only person who ever saw me that way is gone. And it doesn’t feel safe to show anyone else. They couldn’t handle it. Honestly, I’m not sure I can either.
No comments:
Post a Comment