|October 27, 2013. Our last picture. |
I feel directionless. My life was supposed to go one way and now….I have no clue what I’m supposed to do. I was content when there was some order to life. Now what? There are moments of excitement about trying new things but no real joy. I miss our routine. Movies on Monday. Philly on Friday night. Good morning tickles. All gone.There is no such thing as normal. Everything is different. Even the most basic routines seem difficult. I still call out for him to help me get the high things on the shelf. I miss the impromptu dance battles, the continuous laughter. Our home is eerily quiet now.
My girls are growing and becoming women. They have developed lives outside the boundaries of my overprotective ways. Since the divorce in 2006, we were inseparable, the Fantastic Five. While I was always prepared for the girls to go off and lead their lives, he was my life. We were supposed to be together forever. I would often say, “I can never die.” Who would be there to care for him? I resigned myself to accept that Isaiah and I would grow old together. I even called him my husband. Whatever occurred during the day, he was always the first to greet me at the door. “How was your day Mom?” It would give him so much pride to share his snack from school. He would save it in his pocket all day until I got home. Warm, Lorna Doones or popcorn covered in lint. I miss them terribly.
As of late, I’ve been fooling myself. Thinking that I can avoid talking about Isaiah. So I try not to speak about him even when he is the only thought in my mind. Tragedy can usually illicit one of two things from others. People either run the other way or smother you with kindness. It's so hard to know what to say to someone when they have lost a child. I understand my own tears and what it takes to end them. It breaks my heart when I see others crying and upset. I’m very mindful that he is loved by many and they are also experiencing this loss. It’s very difficult for folks to find an appropriate medium. I appreciate that people are mindful of my feelings and are careful with their words. In many ways, I haven't changed. I still like to laugh. I need to laugh. I still enjoy dirty jokes, gory movies and smutty novels. I can still hit a mean two-step and drink wine until I’m silly. There are parts of the old me.
Periodically, I have what I call my “mental moments”. In the car, the shower, Shop Rite. I have perfected the silent cry. It's good to release and I always manage to get back on track. The only time that I lose it and spiral out of control are when I think about the details of Isaiah’s last moments, read or hear the vile comments and lies made by strangers, suffer through the adjustments my family has had to endure and just the uncertainty of the future.
I know the future is unpredictable for all of us. I would have never thought that my life would not include my Isaiah. Isaiah was a part of all aspects of my life both professionally and personally. It takes so much energy to remain positive and truth is, I am scared out of my mind. But I crave some sense of normalcy. I need to engage in the things and people that I love. I have to talk about him, I have to remember. I can't change the void left by his absence. I have to create a new way. A new way of living and loving.
If only it were possible for us to see farther than our knowledge reaches, and even a little beyond the outworks of our presentiment, perhaps we would bear our sadnesses with greater trust than we have in our joys. For they are the moments when something new has entered us, something unknown; our feelings grow mute in shy embarrassment, everything in us withdraws, a silence arises, and the new experience, which no one knows, stands in the midst of it all and says nothing.