MIA

MIA

Missing in Action. 

I've been silent fourteen days. But not because there has been nothing to say. Ten days of travel. Many jumbled thoughts. More than a few raging emotions. Conflicting feelings. Not much time alone. Complete exhaustion. Those are the things that have kept me quiet. 

Last night/early this morning I had an ugly, ugly cry. It was hard. It was cleansing. It was tiring. It was a reminder of just how deep the gaping hole is in my heart, how raw the wound can still be that accompanies Bill's death and our children all out of the nest.

A couple of weeks ago, as I lay my head down to sleep, I swear I could smell Vicks as plainly as if I had an open jar under my nose. And my heart immediately looked for Bill to be laying beside me. He used it every night to help with his sinus'. I haven't opened a jar of Vicks for a very long time. That began my silence. I wanted to write about it, but didn't know what to say. So I said nothing.

My first "girls" trip followed on the heels of that experience. Taking a trip to the beach is exciting, traveling is tiring to my old body. Taking a trip with a person you don't know well and one you have not yet met is more work than I realized. Not because they are difficult people, but because relationships take effort. Building new relationships takes a skill set and a unique type of energy that I have not often used. It isn't bad, but it is not restful, convenient, comfortable or easy.

I have had that "weighted" feeling in my arms and legs and chest since Tuesday, accompanied by big sighs and low energy. The kind of levels that make taking a shower and getting dressed everyday feel like I have run a half marathon. The levels I had all day every day for a while right after Bill's death. But this week I have made it a priority to get out of bed, go through my morning routine, even if it has been close to noon, and get out of the house. It does me no good to sit in this place by myself for extended periods of time. I remained silent because I didn't know what to say. And I didn't want to admit to myself I am struggling. Hard. Again. With the "same thing". So going public with my pain was out of the question. I don't want people to feel sorry for me. Or question my faith. Or judge my "progress".

Today I took my slow moving, deep sighing self to church to work. About halfway through cleaning I walked into the conference room to get a swig of water from my Nestle Pure bottle and I noticed a note near my things. Written in red, with a G2 pen next to it. A note letting me know that when Bradley saw the pen he was reminded of Bill, (who always had at least two of at least three different colors of pen in his pocket at all times.) A trail of tears started again. They left traces down my cheeks while I walked through each aisle as I dry Swiffered the hardwood in the sanctuary. They built to the point of bursting, and I chose to go to an empty office at the opposite end of the building from where Bradley was working, placed my head on the desk and sobbed. Later, when I was about finished cleaning I saw Bradley in the hall. He asked how I was. I was honest and told him this week has been a struggle. I miss my husband. I miss my kids being around. I miss the action of everyday, ordinary family life.

That is why I am writing this evening.

I shouldn't be, but I am always amazed at the depths of pain and the amount of energy that mourning can take. Somehow I keep thinking that time will make it better. It doesn't. Three and a half years later, it still hurts. More than anything I've ever experienced. But, these times of deep, painful, draining mourning are fewer and come farther apart. For that I am grateful. I am also thankful that this is simply part of the cycle. I know "lighter" days are coming. Until then, I will keep the good Kleenex closer than usual.