A Strong Word

Some of you understand and some of you do not, the ongoing torrents of pain after losing a child.  So walk with me, and understand my strong word.

As children we are taught about the words we shouldn’t say.  Hate being a big one.  We are told, “ that’s a strong word, don’t you think you should use ‘dislike’ instead? I think you ‘dislike’ the way your friend treats you, you do not hate them.”   So we grow up learning to use the socially appropriate versions of the words we want to say.

The thing about adulthood is you learn there are just some times when no other word will give justice to what you need to express.  Such as when my shin has just met head on with the edge of the coffee table, or what I really think of our dog when he makes a mess, or most poignantly the hot boil I feel when so many things remind me of the heartbroken despair that is never far from my mind.  So I think I have earned the right to use the only word that truly captures what I sometimes feel.

Here is what I hate:

I hate that I have questions.  Questions about if we did the right things.  Questions about what could have changed.

I hate that I stood in a parking lot holding my 5 year old this week because one of Ellie's songs had just played on the radio and we were both bawling too hard to walk inside.  

I hate that it is normal that our family errands sometimes include stopping by to clean a tiny headstone, to change flowers with the changing seasons.

I hate that when I have a call for an infant at work my stomach is in knots the whole way there; that I have to completely detach so that I can focus on what needs to be done without being overwhelmed with the memory of watching my own daughter being worked on.

I hate that every day I work I have to walk through those hospital doors and remember the sights, the smells, that hallway, that room.

I hate that with every joy, there is a pang of sadness because something is missing; that on Mother’s Day I feel such joy and pride coupled with such deep, wrenching emptiness.

I hate that when my kids see me sick, the first thing their panicked minds take them to is, “Mommy, I’m afraid you will die.”

I hate the visions that haunt my mind, the freeze frames of terror that are so easily remembered when the right trigger is there.

I hate seeing Fourth of July decorations appear in the stores, because it reminds me that horrible anniversary is right around the corner.

I hate that I don’t have a better grip on myself, that I haven’t gotten to a place where it doesn’t make me cry anymore, that I am not just living every moment in hopeful expectation until I see her again.

I hate that it hurts.

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