IF YOU ARE FEELING SUICIDAL OR NEED TO TALK CALL THE NATIONAL LIFELINE
After being home for the last couple of days sick with grief, Robert went back to school today.
“I’ll never see Andrew again,” he cried softly yesterday morning. “I’ll never be able to do things with him again,” he sobbed, so quietly that I had to strain to catch his words.
“Oh My love, my sweet love,” I cried silently while holding him close to my heart.
After a while I asked him if he felt up to going to school, but he said that he wouldn’t be able to concentrate.
“Alright darling, rest,” I said, smoothing the duvet around him.
Like today, the weather was perfect yesterday, rainy, chilly and gray. Perfect because staying at home wrapped in a cozy blanket, snoozing, seems right in such weather.
Robert slept until lunch time, got up for something to eat, and went back to sleep for a while longer.
Seeing Robert, a normally active child, sleep for so many hours for two days in a row, I realized that grief is debilitating, physically as well as mentally. Suddenly I understood why I want to sleep a lot.
When he was home on Monday, lying in my bed some of the time, I slept too. In fact in between chores I slept on and off all day. Yet, by ten o’clock that night, I was more than ready to sleep again.
While I sleep, I rest, maybe I heal, but most importantly, I might dream of Andrew.
In the afternoon, during a nap I dreamed that I was emailing Andrew and crying at the same time, then I was swimming. I swam one lap on my back, speeding through the water so fast, that I nearly smashed my head against the concrete of the pool. Then I turned around and swam another lap, a crawl this time. I could feel my hands pushing against the water, stroke after stroke, my body inched forward. I knew that Andrew was somewhere but I couldn’t see him. I woke up exhausted.
Robert had gone back to his room and was catching up on his home-work
Robert went back to school today, I drove him. In fact he never takes the bus, either Hugh or I drive him and pick him up every day after track. I apologize for the pollution created by the extra car on the road, but given what Robert is dealing with, and likely will deal with, for years to come, I think that the small comfort of getting an extra twenty minutes in bed by being driven to school is a price worth paying.
It is now ten-thirty, I’ve been up three and half hours. The drizzle, the grayness of the day, the sound of the lawn mower in next door garden, are casting a sleeping spell. Like words spoken by a speeding train, sleep, sleep, sleep, echos from the lawn mower, but there is so much to do, there is always so much to do.
What should I do? I have a Fair to organize, letters to write, laundry and ironing piling up, cooking, shopping, breathing…