Breathless in QUOTIDIEN

Please - can the world just stop for a second so I can catch my breath? I can’t keep moving forward until I can breathe again. On May 2nd, 2014, my husband of 31 years passed away quite suddenly. Just like that. Girl’s night out with my daughter ultimately found us at the hospital, speaking to nurses, counselors, and the organ donor gal. I was kept busy with all the details required to cross the ‘t’ in death, making the transition from married to widow, and becoming a single parent to a grief-struck, teenage daughter.

I was just starting to catch my breath…

Then (because there’s always a ‘then’), on October 19, 2016 - another call, but this time to announce the death of my 25 year old son. I’d only been at work for an hour when I got the news. The slowly expelled moan that accelerated into an angry cry of disbelief and the wash of tears robbed me of the strength necessary to stand or speak. I could only think, ‘Not my boy…no…not my Alex’ as I crumpled to the floor, unable to catch my breath. Not again! This couldn’t be happening again. I didn’t think I would ever find the strength to stand up again....but I did. I took one step, and then another, and then another, and wondered that this was even possible. I made the calls, I found a ride, I talked to detectives, I made it home,, and Could scarcely recall how I got there. And I did it all without breathing.

‘Oh my God - what happened?’ There is nothing inherently wrong with this question. I understand that in sudden or unexpected deaths, it’s the natural ‘go to’, and yet, whenever someone asks, the backs of my eyeballs burn, and I go into gasp mode. My breaths shorten, and I relive the very moment I realized that I lost my boy. In the telling, he dies all over again.

Please - in moments like these, consider asking for a memory. Ask me to bring him to life for you. Why do I call him ‘My Sunshine’? Because he always smiled - even when he was being a jerk. When he was little and sick, he would smile between the expulsion of the contents of his stomach. When he was being mischievous, he grinned. When he was angry, he would smile…okay…that was just creepy. He was my Champion kid - the one who guarded my heart and well-being by trying to keep his siblings in line. I have some amazing stories about this young man! ‘Oh my God - what was he like?!’ That’s the question!

‘Is there anything I can do for you?’ or ‘Do you need anything?’ I’ve given much thought to these questions. In the first week, I was in shock, and had no clue what I needed or would need, though the thought of cleaning in preparation for the people I knew would be coming exhausted me.

I returned to work yesterday, almost 2 weeks to the day - and while I did well yesterday, today found me ugly crying at my desk from the moment I walked in. The air felt thick, and everything was irritatingly normal - as if my own world hadn’t just crashed for the second time. I’m home now - and thankful for a gracious boss who understands that my grief isn’t linear…at all.

What can you do for me? Laugh with me even as my heart breaks. Talk to me even when I’m silent. Invite me out when I’m in my jammies at 2pm…but especially, be patient with my tears as I have no command over them. If you can face them, then maybe I can. Right now, they just scare me. Stop over - have some coffee, watch a movie. Diffuse the silence. I would do it myself, but grief has left me breathless.

Last updated December 17, 2016