"You should have ice cream mommy. It really did make me feel better." ~Jake
Twice, on a gray cold Monday, I sat in the same hollow chapel looking for God. Both times though, no luck. Not only did I not find God there, in the midst of people trying to help, loneliness strangled my soul. The haze between my eyes and the air made me feel invisible. The whirling questions, futile grasps at information for comfort, did he have any siblings? whose car was it? fail to deliver any peace. The truths, he's in a better place, it's all part of the plan, so empty. The projections, what must his mother be feeling? Lock me in the round room if this happens to me. The peers coping, the wonder of what's appropriate, image, mirror, shattered. The reality of how close to them this is, the ache as they begin to realize he will never be in that chair again. And we are supposed to wake up tomorrow and participate in this process that nobody understands, has no rules, and seems to feed on our squirming fear.
I want to make a casserole and buy flowers. I want to write a poem and listen to Diana Krall. I want to snuggle under a blanket with my children and tell them stories about magic. I want to say its going to be okay and mean it. I want to cry less.
Instead I'll pray. I'll surrender. I might make a casserole, buy flowers, write a poem, listen to the blues, snuggle with my babies and cast some spells because I know it's not okay, and I cry all the time.
In my forty years, this is the most difficult moment of living I have ever encountered, so many levels of pain, connected, disconnected, One. I have stared into darkness before, and I know that this is just the beginning. My only weapon against this force is Love.
Last night, I ate half a carton of Haagen Dazs Vanilla Swiss Almond ice cream.