FUNKY FATHER'S DAY
Holidays lean toward the difficult level on my survivor scale, though Father's Day hasn't usually set me off. Usually...a ridiculous term when describing the path of grief.
I woke this morning, feeling the room spinning when I rolled over to check the time. Hangover impossible, since no alcohol has entered my system in awhile. Settling in, taking a few breaths, a migraine approach seemed possible; perhaps a flu bug, as last night an aching beneath skin level appeared. It passed. I rose, tentative, but moving.
Since my own father was on the road, traveling home after a southern visit, I called and chatted, wishing him, of course, a happy day. Learning postpartum, so to speak, of a 90th birthday celebration, where 'there was quite a crowd' of long since seen relatives, I felt myself begin the slide down into Funky Town. Not the Funky Town of my college years, swiveling and gyrating gleefully on the dance floors, but my New Normal's Funky Town.
"Just keep swimming," as Dory reminds us, so I decided to reorganize my writing room, which used to be Robbie's room. (Yes, I know. I hear your sighs and eye rolls even as you read of this well thought out choice.) Since painting the living room, all the pictures have been stacked on the large book shelf now relegated to my "Writing Room." I began at the top, wiping off the dust, quickly making choices of which pile each should be placed upon: Give to Katie, put up in living room, or put up in Writing Room.
Of course, this was a bad decision. Of course, I should know better than to browse pictures once the trip down the oiled slip-n-slide has started. Of course, I picked up one framed photo after the next.
Katie's six month old montage of red velvet dress poses should go to her, as should her softball team composite. But, what of Robbie's baseball picture? I've always hung them together, one more memory held beneath glass between oak stained frames. They'd hung on my hallway wall for nine years, yet the idea of hammering nails and replacing them overwhelms me now.
Robbie's baby face, his soft blue, striped Snoopy onesie, fuzzy hair haloing his punkin' head...how can it hurt so much to see this now? I've walked past it dozens, even hundreds of times, touched my fingers to his beautiful face. Smiled. Moved on and finished my day.
My 3 stacks were quickly obsolete as memories flashed with each photograph. Frame after frame went into the bottom of the bookshelf instead, where I can close the doors and deal with them later...or never perhaps. I hear my counselor telling me, of course it hurts. To not hurt we need to take away all of the love. Never! Y
et, moments like this, when my heart is freshly breaking, wringing my guts, angry tears making me blind...moments like this beg for relief. No one can comfort this pain, ease the ache of a mother missing her only son.
So all the pictures of my son, for now, remain stacked neatly and safely. I know they're there. I don't know how long it might be, before I am able to watch the videos, peruse the albums, or hang up the pictures.
What I do know, is that I don't have to have answers to these questions today, or tomorrow, or until I'm ready.
For today, hanging prints and artwork will be enough. Writing, will be enough. Robbie understands, and that will be enough for today.
I woke this morning, feeling the room spinning when I rolled over to check the time. Hangover impossible, since no alcohol has entered my system in awhile. Settling in, taking a few breaths, a migraine approach seemed possible; perhaps a flu bug, as last night an aching beneath skin level appeared. It passed. I rose, tentative, but moving.
Since my own father was on the road, traveling home after a southern visit, I called and chatted, wishing him, of course, a happy day. Learning postpartum, so to speak, of a 90th birthday celebration, where 'there was quite a crowd' of long since seen relatives, I felt myself begin the slide down into Funky Town. Not the Funky Town of my college years, swiveling and gyrating gleefully on the dance floors, but my New Normal's Funky Town.
"Just keep swimming," as Dory reminds us, so I decided to reorganize my writing room, which used to be Robbie's room. (Yes, I know. I hear your sighs and eye rolls even as you read of this well thought out choice.) Since painting the living room, all the pictures have been stacked on the large book shelf now relegated to my "Writing Room." I began at the top, wiping off the dust, quickly making choices of which pile each should be placed upon: Give to Katie, put up in living room, or put up in Writing Room.
Of course, this was a bad decision. Of course, I should know better than to browse pictures once the trip down the oiled slip-n-slide has started. Of course, I picked up one framed photo after the next.
Katie's six month old montage of red velvet dress poses should go to her, as should her softball team composite. But, what of Robbie's baseball picture? I've always hung them together, one more memory held beneath glass between oak stained frames. They'd hung on my hallway wall for nine years, yet the idea of hammering nails and replacing them overwhelms me now.
Robbie's baby face, his soft blue, striped Snoopy onesie, fuzzy hair haloing his punkin' head...how can it hurt so much to see this now? I've walked past it dozens, even hundreds of times, touched my fingers to his beautiful face. Smiled. Moved on and finished my day.
My 3 stacks were quickly obsolete as memories flashed with each photograph. Frame after frame went into the bottom of the bookshelf instead, where I can close the doors and deal with them later...or never perhaps. I hear my counselor telling me, of course it hurts. To not hurt we need to take away all of the love. Never! Y
So all the pictures of my son, for now, remain stacked neatly and safely. I know they're there. I don't know how long it might be, before I am able to watch the videos, peruse the albums, or hang up the pictures.
What I do know, is that I don't have to have answers to these questions today, or tomorrow, or until I'm ready.
For today, hanging prints and artwork will be enough. Writing, will be enough. Robbie understands, and that will be enough for today.
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