It builds up over the days. You sleepwalk through your life, just trying not to be on the verge of tears at every moment. You push away the images that invade your sleep and your idle moments. You steer deliberately around the scene, taking the time for that alternate route because driving over that patch of road breaks you in half every single time. If you forget because you're running late, you will put one hand up to your line of vision to block it out, and talk to yourself out loud until the danger has passed.
There is danger now everywhere. If you weren't anxious enough to begin with, you see death, or the possibility of death everywhere you look. If your glass was half empty before your child's death, it is now bone dry. At least, mine is.
Everything is a struggle. Everything- breathing without feeling guilty, bathing regularly, caring about your appearance, paying attention, finishing things, eating healthy, sleeping, working, being around people, taking care of your remaining child. It must all be done while slogging through the worst emotional pain you've ever known. It is debilitating.
Tonight, I searched the bathroom vanity for Q-tips for Jacob's ears, and some baby oil to loosen all the shampoo that has built up on his scalp. I took a good look at his scalp after his last haircut to realize I obviously haven't looked at his head in about twenty months. Who knows how long that poor child has been going around without rinsing all the suds off his hair in the shower? I had a similar realization a few months after Cory's death when I looked at his ear from the side, and realized it was a wonder the boy could even hear out of it, as badly as it needed to be cleaned.
Along the quest for Q-tips, my hands found Cory's hairbrush. I looked at the strands of her hair, still there, and lifted it to smell her scent. When I uncapped the baby oil and caught a whiff, I was back to being the mother of a nine year old Cory and her baby brother- laughing as she settled him on a blanket for tummy time, stripped him to the waist, and pretended to give him a deluxe massage.
I swallowed past the memories, cleaned out Jake's ears, got him in the shower, and ran to my bed. Once I heard the water start, I could let it go, and let it go, I did. I flung my glasses off, covered my face with my hands as I sat cross-legged, and fell forward on my face. There commenced much sobbing, wailing, and begging to be dead and just be out of this. Tim ran down the hall, pajama pants in hand to find me laying on my face, sobbing so hard I could not breathe and unable to answer questions. When I finally lifted my head, exhausted from this crying business that I seldom indulge in anymore, I looked at him from swollen, puffy eyes and said, "I'd rather be dead. It's just too hard."
Saying it is one thing. Acting on it is another.
Cory, give me strength.
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