My Constant Companion

Compound Grief: A Description

I’m not even sure what I want... what I need to say,
but I’m sure I’ll discover it as I go.

It’s like that feeling when you’re trying to remember that you want
to tell someone something, but the thought is just out of your reach?

I know it’s important.

I know I have something to say.

I just can’t put my finger on it.

That's every conversation I have these days.

Glances of words have flashed behind my eyes;
phrases repeating in my mind like a mantra.

In the midst of all my currently stability, which, if I’m being honest,
has been an infrequent state in my life for quite a while.

I suppose what I’m trying to remember most is me.

I want to remember the me I was.

In conversations, I'll get close. Sometimes I'll see a vague outline or
get a sense of my old identity...

The past year has taken things from me.

The past year, I haven’t been alone in my own head.

Grief- from each miscarriage, from the loss of my mother- has taken up residence in my brain.
I try to do anything, and it shouts or shrieks, or screeches so loudly
I can’t even begin a thought, before...

Mom is dead.

Your body is a failure and a disappointment.

You can't even keep a pregnancy.

The thoughts intrude.

They wrack my nervous system,
my mind eliciting a panic response from
my body.

I want to fight, or flee, from my thoughts.
My muscles often tense and then ache.
I feel short of breath, or I find my legs too weak to stand.

It’s only recently that my headspace has begun to clear.

It’s only recently that I’ve felt like me again.

I suppose this will be the story of how I find my way back.

Momma died on January 12th, 2018.

Even as I’m writing this, the mantra returns.

IwantmymomIwantmymomIwantmymomIwantmymomIwantmymomIwantmymom

I. Want. My. Mom.  

Just now, I had to step away from my computer.

Sometimes grief rips through me, its sobs and howls
threatening to rip me in half.

When I get like this, my dogs go absolutely nuts.

Spanky, all fifty pounds of him, saunters over
to rest his forehead gently against mine.

My sweet,
steady,
solid Spanky.



Twelve years ago, with his first breath, he curled his little paw
around my pinky finger, and that was it. He’s been a bringer of
comfort and compassion to me ever since.

My mom used to say that if I found a man who was half as
good to me as Spanky is, I’d be set for life.

By the grace of God, I’m 99.9999999999% sure I’ve found somebody
who loves me at least as much as Spanky does. Maybe even a little more.
I’ll tell you more about him later.

Then there’s Coco. Fifteen pounds of solid energy. She crashes onto the bed rushing
to sniff my eyes and my nose, on a quest to find and lick away my tears.

Their quiet love and solace are often what brings me back into my head again.

Coco’s watery, amber-colored eyes will search mine, trying to puzzle out how to fix me.
She’s the most ridiculous, cartoon-like creature known to humankind, so I can’t help but
laugh when she makes such serious faces.

Ugh.

Do you see what I mean? I've wandered again.

It takes all my energy to truly begin or finish any
idea or complete any thought.

I suppose I should get back to it.

I think I’ve needed to write this for almost nine months.

My mom is dead.

We don’t know what caused it. The JP determined it was natural causes and
we didn’t push for an autopsy because…

The results would bring back what we already suspected.

Either she had a stroke

or an aneurysm

or a seizure

or a blood clot

or her blood sugar had dropped suddenly

or rose suddenly

or her kidneys stopped functioning

or she had a heart attack

or any other kind of complication from any other of her myriad health issues.

And our knowing the cause wouldn’t bring her back.

My grandmother found her. My poor grandmother found her dead daughter.

And that’s all I can choke out for now.

Work comes early even if sleep doesn’t come easily.

Good night.