We were on our way to the beach the other day for a couple of days of relaxation. It was a much anticipated trip over the weekend of our 11th anniversary, and I was looking forward to a nice break in the routine.
The day before the trip, we got most of the preparations made. The morning we left, we woke up early, eager to get started. Once we were on the road, Grief caught up with me.
Maybe it was the break in the routine that did it. I think that once my mind began to rest, it started to process feelings and memories that had been lying dormant.
There they were, memories of our Liza Jane, flashbacks of some of the best moments of her life. (At least this time the images invading my mind were of the good days... not the bad days.)
In addition to the memories, I has a sudden flood of the "what if she were here?" kinds of thoughts. What would this seaside break be like if our Liza was with us? What would be the same, what would be different?
Once Grief and the memories begin to invade, it is very hard to continue as before. It is as if a giant mountain has arisen in the path ahead and there is no way around it -- the only choice is a slow, arduous climb until at last the summit is reached and I can begin the descent down the other side.
This time, though, I was able to accelerate the climb a little bit. I did this by opening my mouth and sharing with my husband, who was riding along beside me, everything that kept running through my mind. I don't always have the luxury of immediately sharing my thoughts with someone close to me, but in this case it was nice to have a captive audience, and it was really therapeutic.
To my relief, acknowledging the memories and the questions seemed to give them freedom. It allowed the images and feelings to take wings, almost, and continue on their way.
I'm sure a lot of this has to do with the fact that we're now a solid year and a half past the date our daughter died. It is a relief that sometimes when Grief sneaks up, it is no longer here to stay for days and days. Sometimes, now, it passes more quickly, like a song that finishes on a resolving note sooner than expected.
This doesn't diminish my love for my daughter, or how painfully I still miss her.
I am thankful, though, that the painful feelings are lingering less, and that I am able to spend more time in rest and joy.
1 comment:
You write so beautifully and articulately, Mandy. I always look forward to reading your posts. You have climbed so many mountains this last year and a half.
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