10/10

We use a pain scale in the healthcare world. Most are familiar with it. It's a scale going from 0-10. It's a way to gauge a person's pain level in order to determine whether or not your interventions are effective. People aren't always great at understanding the scale, but it can be helpful in determining efficacy of medicaton from time to time. Sometimes patients and nurses don't exactly agree on the pain rating. So, when the nurse is the patient, they tend to avoid the top of the pain scale.  I've never rated my pain a 10/10 when asked. Even when I was yelling and literally punching the back of an ER gurney because of kidney stone pain, I still couldn't do it. When asked what I rated my pain, I said "8" through clenched teeth and tears.

While there have been times that I have been in pretty intense physical pain, I could have never imagined the power of emotional pain. Even writing the words, "emotional pain" just seems too empty to describe the immense, searing agony  of child loss. It's ongoing, and forever and there is no medication, no cure. And there is certainly no scale that does it justice.

I keep learning new things about grief, and that's part of the reason the pain lingers. I reach new levels of understanding of this process with each passing year. I recently came to a realization about a certain statement that's never made much sense to me. You know how you'll always see a meme or quote related to grief that essentially says, "no one can tell you when to get over it", or "so many people just tell me to get over it"? Well, I don't think I've ever actually heard THOSE specific words. Don't get me wrong, I FEEL that sentiment, but I don't think I've ever heard it. But I think now I know what actually happens that makes grieving people feel that way. It isn't necessarily that someone SAYS we need to move on, it's the unspoken expectation that we just do so.

For example, grieving people are expected to keep their actual feelings quiet, at least at certain times in their lives when others are allowed to voice theirs. If we say what we actually think in certain situations, we will not be received well. I'll try to explain what I mean....

The hospital I work in has a rule set up, during this particularly bad flu season, that says that no children under the age of 16 are allowed in the hospital. It's for the protection of our patients and their babies. Of course this is difficult for some new families who want their newborn to be introduced to their other children as soon as possible. While I can understand this sentiment, my patience with those who try to find a way around the policy, only lasts so long. My response to is your typical, "I know this is a tough policy and I'm sorry your other children will have to wait to meet their sibling". At this point, I'm still ok. I can make it through that...once. But lately the conversation has continued to include, "I just CAN'T be away from my children for 3 whole days. I've never been away from them"...followed by tears. YES, I know pregnant women are hormonal. YES, I understand that this is a completely normal sentiment. But that doesn't mean that my own heart doesn't scream, "yes you CAN! Believe me. I haven't held my child in 5 years. I'm still here." Obviously that response doesn't work. This is the problem. People who don't understand this way of thinking are allowed to express their feelings, even if they hurt me. But I cannot express mine. And I discussed this  with my friend and she asked me why I can't just say it? The answer is simple. I have to live in THIS world.  I don't get to live in my grieving world all the time. I mean, I suppose I could, but I wouldn't function here in reality.

I'm not saying any of this to entice any sort of sympathy. I'm truly not. I'm not looking for someone to say, "of course you can say what you feel", mostly because it isn't true. But the feelings are real. They're present whether they're voiced or not. And I think this discrepancy between the living world and the grieving world bears mentioning.

I also don't pretend to be innocent of invoking these feelings in my fellow grievers. I lost my child. I have not lost my spouse. I do not have a life threatening illness myself. Both of my parents are still alive. And for those in my life who don't share my fortune, I welcome you to express exactly what you're feeling when you're talking to me. Make your conversations with me the ones in which you can say exactly what is in your brain in that moment. If I complain about my husband, tell me that I'm lucky to have him. If I whine about a bad hair day, show me your bald head and tell me to get the hell over it. I say this because I want the grieving to know that I don't need for you to "get over it". I don't need for you to feel any way other than the way you feel. I don't need for you to sugar coat things. I don't need for you to spare my feelings because I don't understand where you're coming from. Tell me where you stand. Tell me what your heart hears when I say something insensitive. Tell me exactly what stirs in you when you feel  I've missed your perspective.  It's ok. It's OK to hurt. It's OK to be angry. It's OK to tell me you feel forgotten and alone. It's ok...to tell me it's a 10...

"Too Depressed For Therapy"

I don't remember exactly what day it happened, what moment it was that wiped away my ability for pretense. It wasn't the moment he left. That was certainly filled with more than the deafening silence I heard screeching through my brain...but the loss of pretense wasn't there. In fact, just hours after he was gone, we went to dinner. To DINNER. I remember thinking about how incredibly ridiculous that was. Do people whose children are dead go to dinner?? Probably not, I'd thought, and yet there I was with a menu in my hand, just like it was any other Saturday.

And don't get me wrong, I've never really been one to mince words, but still I could when needed. However, that part of me is gone in many situations where it used to just be as natural as breathing. What do I mean? Well, recently I was talking about my grandmother and I said, "oh. Well, she's dead." I think the way I said it seemed harsh or something.  It must have because I recognized a change in expression among the people I was talking to. But for me, dead is dead. It isn't  just "passing away" or "passing on" or "crossing over". It's dead. And I think I NEED for it to be that. Because it's real. There is nothing more real than "dead" for me. And believe me, it is the most real thing I've ever experienced. It's continuous. It's part of me. And now IT is what is as natural as breathing. Dead. My son is dead.

I was there when it happened, so I know. The air stopped moving through his lungs and his heart stopped beating. He no longer turned his head toward my cheat as I held him. His arm slipped from its place on his chest. And if you think this is difficult to read, I can't begin to describe what it means to watch that, to bear witness to your child's last breath. Dead.

I see a therapist pretty regularly (most people reading this are likely thinking, "well thank god!....:)). But sometimes I just can't go. Sometimes the thought of moving even one arm is too much, so getting up and making myself take time to "work through my crap" is not gonna happen. So, I don't go. I literally cancelled therapy because I was too depressed to go. That's hilarious to me. And maybe it shouldn't be, but it is. Because it's REAL. That's exactly what grief does. It kicks my ass. And it NEVER goes away. And sometimes it makes me awesome, and sometimes it makes me vomit. And sometimes it make me tired. And sometimes it makes me a crappy friend. But one thing it never does is leave. It doesn't allow me to ignore it. Not in its entirety, not enough to allow for pretense...

I don't even know why this is important enough to me to write down. Maybe someone else out there feels the same way? Maybe this is a common byproduct of grief? What I do know is that what I experienced was real, what I currently feel is real, and that the irony is that what woke me up to this very real "life" I lead....was death.