Monday, June 28, 2010

Getting It

For the past two weeks, I have been feeling like my brain just doesn’t get it. I have been utterly unable to grasp the idea that Hudson is gone. As in forever. As in never coming back. As in all that is left of her physical body are the ashes sitting in a ceramic lidded pot on the memorial table where we have all of her pictures, drawings, and favorite books and toys. My brain keeps replaying all those ordinary moments with her—watching her read her books, getting her in and out of the car seat, waking her up in the morning, letting her turn off the hallway light before she goes to bed, turning on her favorite songs—and it’s like I just cannot comprehend that no more of these ordinary moments will ever be. Something up there just can’t, or won’t, accept it. My brain still imagines new moments as if by doing so, they might somehow become reality.

This despite the endless string of subtle reminders: instinctively closing the basement door before remembering there is no longer a need; remembering that I no longer have to keep the “good” dishtowels in a high cabinet rather than in a Hudson-level drawer to avoid having to wash them every other day; turning down a lunch date on a day we’re heading out of town before remembering that it will no longer take me several hours to plan and then pack our bags and the car; automatically pressing the passenger-side door button on the van’s key fob when I head out of the gate before realizing that no one is getting in on that side.

This despite the endless string of not-so-subtle reminders: a cabinet and freezer still full of toddler food; a basement full of toddler gear; a crib perpetually empty; our dear friends’ children who keep growing up while Hudson never will. And worst of all, the intense and persistent ache in my chest.

But for the past two weeks, while my brain continues to deny, I think my heart is starting to get it. My heart has been feeling the weight of the slow realization that we could live many, many more decades and yet this sadness will never disappear. It will recede and lessen, but it will never go away. There will always be a hole in our lives that Hudson once occupied. The hole is cavernous now, as we have no other children and our lives and identities as we knew them have been shredded irreparably. As we labor forward, as we have more children, as we continue to try to find joy where it exists, the hole will grow smaller and smaller until the pain just becomes part of the fabric of our existence. But it will never vanish. It will always be there in the empty chair at the table, in the spaces inside family moments and photos where a big sister should be, in the anguished pause after the question, “How many children do you have?”

Yes, I think my heart is getting it. And it is breaking all over again.

15 comments:

  1. Your heart will be stronger in the places where it was broken and healed.

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  2. Mandy - I continue to hold you both in my prayers. Your words are painful, moving, strong, fragile...your words define love. Especially the love that grows between a mother and a child. You ARE a mother - an amazing mother. And you have a daughter - her name is Hudson and she will always be with you - in your heartbeat, your breath, and your soul. We love you Mandy.

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  3. Thank you for sharing with us, Mandy. Although I make *no* comparisons of loss, your journey of learning to live again makes me think of someone learning to walk on a prosthetic limb. There is stumbling and falling, there is progress and frustration (and for you, so much more). Eventually you'll be sturdy on your 2 feet, even if the steps never feel the same. We're all cheering you on. Big, big hugs to you.

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  4. Mandy - I think this head and heart relationship is fascinating. In my experiences with grief I find they alternate being in denial. My head will remind me of the logic/reality and my heart will not hear it or my heart is feeling intense sadness and my head can not explain it/accept it. When the two agree, for me, it is often intense - a true mind body experience of loss. Allan describes this as a sneaker wave of grief. love to you and ed

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  5. Mandy, I have looked up to you as a mother from the get-go starting at the coffee shop, but never more so than now in the agony of your grief.

    I am so sorry for your loss — and all the little losses that you have to experience each moment. I am glad you continue to write. I can’t imagine how hard it is to put it all into words. I just find myself completely wordless, realizing that all words of comfort are so empty when stacked up to such a loss. But please know that we never forget and that we keep you and Ed in our thoughts constantly. --Kate Zeller

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  6. Mandy, I have looked up to you as a mother from the get-go starting at the coffee shop, but never more so than now.

    I am so sorry for your loss — and all the little losses that you have to experience each moment. I am glad you continue to write. I can’t imagine how hard it is to put it all into words. I just find myself completely wordless, realizing that all our words of comfort are so empty when stacked up to your loss. But please know that we never forget and that we keep you and Ed in our thoughts constantly. love, Kate Zeller

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  7. There are no words. I continue to ache along with you and have incredible respect for your strength.

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  8. sorry about my double posts above. was having some technical difficulties and thought I lost my original comment. see, always thinking about you guys... :) -Kate

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  9. Mandy, I think and pray for you and Ed each and every day...I still have Hudson's picture on my dresser, so I say good morning to her everyday. As I was reading your posts I couldn't help but think of my own aunts who lost their children...as well as my own mother. I learned from my mother that the hole never mends, but you can and do go on. Some days are harder than others...even years later.Be strong my friend and know that in time you will gain understanding.

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  10. Your words are so painful, yet so elequent. I cannot imagine the pain that you feel, but I admire you so for sharing it. You and Ed are in my daily prayers.

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  11. This is tough stuff to read. Your pain is incredible and it's so frustrating to think how incapable we are of giving you solace. Another holiday will soon be upon us and I've been thinking about how - if things were right in the world - Hudson would be our parade marshal at St. Ann's, you the head cheerleader, Ed the chief photographer, or if you were in North Carolina, Hudson would be delighting her family by seeing the 4th of July through her wondering eyes. Instead, it'll be the saddest of 4ths because she's not here. It's enough to crush our hearts. If there's any solace I can offer it is that I and many others join you in missing that beautiful girl.

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  12. Mandy, I am thinking of you all of the time. I know there is nothing anyone can do to lessen the pain and anguish you and Ed are feeling, but to the extent that it might help to know that we are all still grieving with you, and will continue to do so, know that we are. Love, Sherry

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  13. Mandy & Ed,

    A dear friend of mine lost her neice about a year ago. She was a beautiful girl and, just like Hudson, full of potential. She had been a freshman at The University of Alabama for one month and headed out for a Labor Day trip. She had a car accident and was killed.

    My friend's comment was that they should issue armbands which say what you may not want to say. Their message to the world is "this terrible thing has happened to me". Understand that whatever I do or say is affected by this. If I cannot speak, it is ok. If I cannot stand, it is ok. If I cannot go to the grocery, it is ok. Or if I might laugh or smile, it is OK too.

    This is a sad place. Know that whatever you do, it is OK.

    We love you both.

    Tate. Zollie, and the kids

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  14. To say that this is part of the grieving process seems, somehow, to cheapen this. I know that what others say is true-- that somehow you will go on and life will be good again. I hate that your deep passion for everything is making the hurting harder, too-- it's not fair. Be as mad and hurt and crumpled as you need to be, and may every day make it a little easier.

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  15. "There is a thread you follow. It goes among things that change. But it doesn't change. People wonder about what you are pursuing. You have to explain about the thread. But it is hard for others to see. While you hold it you can't get lost .... You don't ever let go o the thread . -- William Stafford. "A broken heart let's the light shine in." These are quotes from a friend's memorial, I hope they bring you comfort and find light warming your heart. One other one ... The love you share with Hudson will continue. God Bless.

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