Monday, June 21, 2010

"Stop All The Clocks"

When we were at Ocracoke two weeks after Hudson died, Ed was sad that we did not have our camera. He’s had a long love affair with photography—at one point, it even included developing his own photos. For Ed, the camera and its art are therapeutic. (We only recently upgraded to a digital SLR camera right around Halloween of last year—I’m so grateful for this because it translated to six months of stunning photos of our girl that we would not have had otherwise.)

I was glad we didn’t have the camera—I was not ready to make new memories without our Hudson. It felt awful enough to me that she wasn’t there with us—I did not want photos to document it.

We spent this past weekend (Father’s Day) at Tilghman Island on the Eastern Shore in Maryland. We both thought that the water would bring comfort, as it usually does, but this time it did not work its customary healing magic. At a few different points, Ed got the camera out and took a few shots. When he pointed the camera at me, I asked him, for the first time since we’ve known each other, not to take a picture of me. I’m just not ready to make new memories yet without my girl.

I don’t have any room for these new memories in my head or my heart. Not yet. I’m still trying to retrieve and hold on to the memories I have of Hudson. I spent some time last night poring over my Facebook posts from the months leading up to her death, just trying to call to mind the ordinary things we were doing in our days. (I was shocked to find just a few posts in three months having anything to do with her—I hope I was more present with her in real life than my Facebook posts reveal.) If only I had known these would be the last moments I had with her, I would have tried to document them all somehow. Where is the rewind button?

I’m even more consumed with all the memories we will never make. How is it possible that we got to celebrate only one birthday? Only one Halloween? Only one summer trip to the beach? How is it possible that there will never be the magic of lightning bugs? Or the pride of using the potty? Or the joy of a big sister picture with a new baby? This is about as far as I can go in my mind’s eye before I crumple.

I have had the hardest string of days since Hudson died. The pain is so overwhelming and so constant that I feel at times like I simply cannot stand it, like I have no idea how I will make it through this. I long for her in a way that I haven’t so far, or if I have, I haven’t let myself feel it. I want her back so badly that I feel like I am breaking in half. I think my unwillingness to make new memories is in part still a denial that she is really gone. Like if I only wish hard enough, cry hard enough, remember hard enough, imagine hard enough, and don’t take any new pictures, then this will never have happened. And she will come back to us. And we can go on.

“Stop all the clocks.” Please, stop them.

15 comments:

  1. So hard to read this, having just celebrated Elliot's second birthday and knowing that you and Ed never had that with Hudson. Know that you're surrounded by friends, neighbors, family members who will try to offer help in whatever ways we can, even though we don't pretend to understand the depths of the pain and confusion you must be dealing with on an ongoing basis.

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  2. If there was a way to stop all the clocks, I know that the circle of people surrounding you would do so. And I am so incredibly sorry that there isn't. I continue to pray that this debilitating grief will slowly subside and your beautiful memories of Hudson will remain crystal clear in your mind and heart.

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  3. I worry a lot that you and Ed will struggle to be yourselves again -- the outgoing, joyful people we all know and love. It would be very easy to never be those people again. And who could fault you? No one could. You have every right to be broken. But I hope somehow, someway, someday you can be yourselves again.

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  4. Nobody knew there would be a day, moment, time...like this. I love you my friend. Renee P.

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  5. Hudson is with you Mandy, this very instant. She is wrapped around your heart. Your love is what gave her joy in life, and that feeling of love is what Hudson would want for her dear mother.

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  6. I am surprised at how heart-wrenching Hudson's death has been for me--a person who never even met her. I have no idea what it would be like to bear your sorrow.

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  7. Oh if I could, I surely would stop the clocks. Inside my own grief, I hurt so bad for your hurting and cry for your crying. I know what you mean when you describe feeling like you will break in half for longing. I remember that "I want them back and nothing else will do!" ache in the weeks after my tiny twin boys died. It's awful. I am so sorry that you must feel that. I love you little sister.

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  8. We are wrapping you in healing light. You are not alone. I am praying for moments of relief and peace for you and Ed in the midst of all this bone-crushing pain. Melissa F

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  9. Mandy--it seems so wrong and unfair that while I am cherishing the first days with my baby girl, you are grieving for the moments you will never have with yours. Words cannot express how sad I am for you. Allyson

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  10. It is so terribly, horribly unfair that this has happened. I don't know, but I can hope that this is the crest of the wave, that after you get through this your pain will diminish a little bit, and that each wave that comes will be smaller than the last. I hate that this happened, I hate that anyone we care about has to hurt this much, and I hate the most that the things that normally comfort you are not. I will pray, as I have and will continue to do, for peace for you and Ed.

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  11. Oh Mandy, it is so heartbreaking to read this. I wish I had something more profound to say, but my heart is simply heavy for you both during these rough few days.

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  12. It sounds like your grieving process is hitting hard. This is the worst part, Mandy. The urgent "to dos" are done, and some people have returned to routine, and you are left with this pain and the long-term of it has set in. Moving forward without her, new pictures without her in them, new memories without her, new day-to-to transactions without Hudson present - this kills us all, Mandy. I, too, wish I had something more inspiring to say. But I can only imagine how much this hurts and how hard it is to operate, minute to minute. Just know we are still all here for you as you grieve. Hugs.

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  13. One of the hardest things for me in the days following my dad's death was that everyone else in the world seemed to be carrying on as usual. I remember riding in the car one day, watching the other cars on the road, watching people nonchalantly walking into a building and thinking "these people aren't even acknowledging that the whole world has stopped." Mandy, I am so sorry that your whole world has stopped. Again. If it is any comfort, your openness in sharing your grieving process has opened up for me, and probably others, an outlet for my own dormant grieving as well. People want to read what you have to say. You are truly amazing. Thank you for sharing.

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  14. I'm thinking of you and praying for you.

    kim johnson

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  15. I am thinking of and praying for you and your family.

    Faye B, your neighbor in Michigan Park

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