ride it out.

Sometimes my sadness comes up and punches me in the throat.  I can't breathe.  I can't function.  I just sit.  And cry.  Things that used to make me crazy are no longer a big deal.  I don't care about the cleanliness of my house.  I don't care how the dishes are loaded into the dishwasher.  I don't care if the laundry is folded right away.  

The finality of Michael's passing hits me daily like a ton of bricks.  I open a closet and see our Christmas advent calendar.  I am struck with the thought that we will not do that again this year. I will not put little notes of fun activities for us to do together.   I am reminded of him as I feed the dog - one of his daily chores.  Or when the recycling bucket is full - it is on the tip of my tongue to call him to take it out.

I think of the ways that I could have prevented this.  I know I couldn't.  But it doesn't stop me from feeling like if I had only been able to hold his hand, he would have come back.  Or if I had been in the room with him while they were working on him, that he would have sensed it.  Known that he wasn't alone.  Known that his mommy was right there waiting for him to open his eyes. To breathe on his own.  Or if I had only prayed harder.  

I know intellectually that I couldn't do anything more.  But my heart constantly wonders what if.  It is the what ifs that hurt daily.  We used to make what ifs a game ... what if Star Wars was really true?  What if cars could fly?  Now what ifs haunt me.  Shake me to my very core.

Weekends are difficult.  I don't have a set place to be at a set time.  I have freedom to do what I want.  But I can't leave the house except to visit the cemetery.  I just sit.  And cry.  And remember.  And long for my sweet little boy.

Our grief counselor shared that when you are on a runaway train, all you can do is sit.   You can't stick your foot out to stop it.  You just ride it out.  Hold on tight.  

And so that is what I do.  I am gripping the seat rest.  Closing my eyes.  And riding it out.