Grey Day Musings

While I have not been posting frequently on this blog, I have been writing a little in privacy. I have a on-going file on my computer that I jot down my sentence-thoughts in as they pop into my head. I have a journal on my nightstand that allows me to write reflections to God on the nights that I have the motivation. Sometimes these notes make their way into a blog post, sometimes they are too raw and unfinished, and I'm not really interested in having to explain the how's and the why's of these too-real emotions and thoughts.

The mind and heart is a curious thing. Marie and I have commented a few times to others that right now it feels like our time with Josiah was just a dream. Why do we feel that way? We are sound of mind, we can reason with ourselves that Josiah was real. We see all around us the lasting impact, the physical signs that we had a son for 2 1/2 years. There are pictures, toys, and tokens all around us the point back to his real-ness, but it all has some 'out-there' quality to it, like a slight haze has formed around these memories causing us to legitimately ask, "did it really happen? Did we really have a son?"

So much of our life has gone back to what it was three years ago, as if we never had Josiah. I wonder if thinking about Josiah and recalling our time together has this 'dreamlikeness' to it because we are often keeping the memories at a distance. We're not trying to forget or ignore him, but we sometimes choose to not fully embrace and stare right into the face of these memories because it would completely incapaciate us. We wouldn't be able to get out of bed for days. And so we've come to subconsciously realize that to get anything accomplished in a day we have to put the memories and thoughts of Josiah just off to the side, still quite in view, still felt, but not front and centre, not that which we orbit around. And so we've created this 'at a distance' relationship with what remains of Josiah and it tricks our mind into giving us the same sensation as waking up from a dream.

The absolute worst sensation is waking up and for a fleeting second believing that Josiah is still with us. The split-second of half-awakeness where I'm coming out of sleep and being warmed with the anticipation of walking into Josiah's room and saying good morning. It cuts ... so ... deep. I'm crying even now as I stir up the memory of these occasions. It is such a slap in the face, and incalculable shock and for a few minutes I feel like I've lost Josiah all over again.

My mind still has echo's of what life was like 4+ months ago. It still has the faint memory of our daily routine. I'll be making coffee at 7:00 AM and I'll be hit with the echo of the past when I would be in quiet desperation wishing that Josiah would sleep for another 45 minutes so that I could wake up and be ready to take care of him. And he never would sleep those extra minutes. He would always wake up moments after the nurse left because he was so excited to play with mommy and daddy. Or it will be 8:00 AM and it would dawn on me that it is time for Josiah's meds. I'm supposed to be in his room right now, crushing pills and drawing up syringes while he plays with his mobile. And then comes the worst one-two punch: the first, that Josiah isn't in his bedroom and second, that I will never see him again this side of heaven. The pain is excruciating.

Our journey has brought me a lot of insight into the human experience. I'm amazed on how most days I can hold myself completetely together on the surface. That, as I spent time with strangers, no one would be able to guess or sense the deep pain and turmoil that I am carrying in their presence because it isn't registering on my face. And I ask myself, as I go out and interact with people, who else is having similar experiences where they appear to be fully functioning and pain-free on the surface, yet deep in their soul there is a tumultuous storm?

I also never realized how much 'death' shows up in our conversations and daily living. I've done a good job at ridding comments such as "that's so gay" and "don't be retarded" from my vocabulary because I understand the hurt those phrases can cause those who are gay, or close to someone with a handicap. But the frequency of even innocent comments like "dead end" or "the situation looks grave" or "don't die!" astounds me because I'm so sensitive to all right now. And I wonder if other people who have had loved ones die feel the same thing?

And there's a lot of dying on TV, which makes me wonder how a population can still tune into these shows. Not that I'm against these types of episodes; it's just that enough people have had their lives changed by the death of someone close to them that I would have thought there would be a less demand and interest in this stuff. If you've ever seen a death, every portrayal on the screen is uncomfortable. Sometimes when I watch a medical drama (Scrubs, etc) I have the morbid thought, "nope, it wasn't like that. If only it was that easy and peaceful." Other times the drama and the action hits a little closer and I have to flick the channel. I've been given new lenses to see the world through, and it's creating in me an empathy that I never had before. Death sucks.


With hope and promise.
- Andrew & Marie