Four weeks ago today we whispered our final goodbyes into Keyan's ears. Four weeks ago, our dreams and aspirations for her succumbed to the reality that her disease would win. Four weeks ago we prayed with her, sang with her and held her hand as she entered heaven. It hardly seems possible that it has only been four weeks....it seems like an eternity. A time span filled with so much pain that it is more readily marked by breaths than by days or weeks. I had no idea the level of physical and mental anguish I would feel after Keyan was gone. No matter how I prepared myself for this time, nothing ever allowed me to even get close to the reality of this longing, this emptiness, this darkness.
I wish that I could say that we are finding our way and creating our new normal. But the honest truth is that we aren't doing that yet. Right now we are living with, eating with, sleeping with, and wrestling with the weight of grief...all of the time. I am unable to be distracted from it, I am unable to see beyond it and I am unable to feel much more than sadness, disbelief, and anger.
Where am I? How am I? I just miss her. Period. I miss her so much that I have to remind myself to breath...and even those breaths are shallow and ragged. I miss seeing her in her chair doing her iPad, I miss suctioning her, I miss watching her read her books, I miss kissing her cheeks, and brushing her beautiful hair. Mostly though, I miss touching her, and that has caught me off guard. I am not a touchy-feely person. Hugs can be hard for me, even from my own kids. And the reality was that Keyan wasn't all that fond of being touched either. But every now and then, when I was disconnecting her from her pumps at 6pm, she would stand between my legs while I was fumbling through all of the buttons and she would let me place my hand on her side. She might let me rub her back for a few seconds and I would soak her soft soft skin in through the pores of my fingers and memorize the feel of her ribs. I know exactly how my hand had to be cupped to hold her steady and i fear with every cell in my body that I will forget that curve.
The beginnings of my brain understanding that on this earth, I will never again feel her is numbing. It is a visceral pain like no other and I hate it. Yet, I have vowed to myself to not run from it. To walk through it and with it, instead of around it. For me, the only way I know how to honor her is to live with this pain and fear and truly feel it. Cry because of it, vomit because of it and scream because of it. I have hope that while doing all of those things, I will also laugh with my grief, be moved by my grief, and smile because of my grief. This journey is much more complex than I was ready for but it will not ruin me. It may change me, but I will carry this pain and become intimately familiar with it so that some day I can get glimpses of life beyond it.
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