Contradictions

This time of year is what I call the Dark Time. The time between Halloween and February 19 of any year is the last slide for my boy from sickness into death. Halloween 2015 is when we had our visit from the Rainbow Connection (wish agency housed in Michigan, amazing place) to set up his wish trip, and February 19, 2016 is the day that Noah left this earth. He was sick, he was tired, Epilepsy had ravaged his body and stolen every independent act from him, and it was time. I know it was time, and I have zero regrets about understanding that.

This dark time is when the memories seem closest to the surface of my brain and heart. That it happened during the Fall and Winter, our two favorite seasons, is not lost on me. The grief seems heavier and more exhausting, the tears closer to the surface, the fog in my brain the thickest. The The social interactions required of the season are exponentially more difficult to navigate or initiate. And, most of all, the regret seems more contradictory.

It’s a contradiction, you see. The soul-deep, aching need and wish that Noah would still be here with me because everything would be just a little bit better if he were here. But I would NEVER wish what he went through in his last few years, and especially the last year, on anyone. He lost his walk, his talk, his fierce independence, to Epilepsy. He felt sick, all of the time. It broke my heart to know that, to watch that, to try and support him through that. For him to have the courage and the will to let go and leave the broken shell of a body he was left with was admirable and proved his strength of will to all of us. He is no longer sick, no longer tired, no longer seizing constantly, and for that I am grateful.

And yet, especially during this dark time, I am consumed by grief. The hole in my soul that was left when he died has ragged, painful edges. My world is less bright, less joyful, less every damn thing, because he is gone. Moms are not supposed to outlive their children. Period. I get angrier during this time over that. I get more exhausted during this time, carrying the grief. I want him back, and I want his life back, and I want his actual joy and laughter, love and light, not the memory of it.

The contradiction of this rips at me. How can I want him back, grieve so deeply, when I know, I absolutely know, what it would look like for him? How can I be so selfish as to want him to be here, celebrating the season, preparing for his favorite family trip of all, knowing, KNOWING, what that means? How can I be so relieved that my Little Biscuit suffers no more, yet be willing to do any damn thing just to have him back, living, on this Earth?

I don’t know what to do with that, especially now when the memories are so close and we are sliding face first into February 19. I am someone who needs definitive answers. I need definitive answers whether they be good, bad, or ugly; that’s how I work in this world. I don’t see shades of grey very well and I don’t sit comfortably with not knowing something. So what do I do? How do I shoulder the burden of this massive contradiction not knowing the answer?

I have no idea. I do know that I have surrounded myself with people who get it. Who hold space for me, who lessen the demands on me, and who understand that I am wrestling with some serious shit. They pretend not to see when I shut my door or show up somewhere with remnants of grief on my face (because there’s no crying here. Nope). They gracefully accept my lame excuses for missed social events. They initiate gentle contact, understanding that it might be a day or two before I respond, and they let me wrestle with this contradiction. They don’t try actively to make it better, but they give me the space and grace to figure it out. And it helps, tremendously, that I don’t have to put on a facade that everything is OK. I can just be who I am, and do what I need to do, to get through this dark time.

I don’t have any answers to solve the contradiction. Maybe someday I will, and maybe I won’t. But, five years later, I am beginning to accept that. I am beginning to understand that, if I stop fighting the contradiction and demanding answers, to move through it, it will get easier to carry.

I don’t know if the dark time will get easier. Maybe someday it will, and maybe it won’t. But five years later, I am beginning to accept that. I am beginning to understand that if I stop fighting with grief and demanding that it leave me alone, to move through it instead of fight my way around it, it might get easier to carry.