I don’t know if it was the lingering heavy sorrow over yesterday’s memorial for our friend Neil, or the prospect of tomorrow, the three-month anniversary of Hudson’s death, or nothing in particular (which is likely), but it has been one of those days.
We spent most of the day in the car on the way home from Charlotte. I drove the whole way so that Ed could try to get some work done (he drove the whole way down there on Tuesday night and Wednesday morning in return). I was in tears off and on most of the ride home, working hard to choke them down because it’s not very easy, or very safe, to drive when your eyes are tear-filled. I didn’t want to stop and get a good cry over with because I just wanted to get home.
So when I got home, I cried. Hard. And then stopped. And then started again. And the second time, I couldn’t stop. For almost an hour. It was one of the hardest cries I’ve had since the hospital. There’ve been only a handful of this kind—stomach clenched into hard little knots, loud moaning not unlike what I remember from being in labor, snot and hot, salty tears streaming down my face, at times sobbing so hard that I feel like just can’t get a breath. World-collapsing cries.
And I just couldn’t stop.
Ed had gone to pick up dinner, and when he got back, he found me upstairs in my glider, utterly unable to get a hold of myself. So he nudged me over, sat down in the glider with me, tucked me up under his arm, and just rocked me, back and forth, as if I were a baby myself. Until finally, the sobs came less frequently, less forcefully, until they finally faded into sniffs and silent tears, until they finally stopped. I truly do not know what I would do without that man.
It was just one of those days. And I just have to let them come and do their thing, and try to live through them.