Thursday, June 25, 2015

Waves of Grief

The phone rings. I pick it up, answer the question, then hang up.  I review some documents, answer more questions. In the midst of reading an innocuous document, recounting notes of disputes I am litigating, I'm suddenly knocked down.  There is a catch in my throat and tears begin to stream down my face.  The sadness envelopes me in such a strange and powerful way. I can no longer concentrate and all I want is to hold my family close and never let them go, but of course, they are not with me as I am at work.  My body aches from the depths of the grief.  It takes hours, sometimes an entire day to shake the feeling and return to normal--whatever that is.  Then, just as suddenly, it happens again.

I don't know why I'm having these waves of grief; these moments of complete sadness.  There is no rhyme or reason for how long it lasts (at least that I have figured out). Some weeks simply are hard for no apparent reason. Obviously, DQ is still sick.  She is still in hospice.  She still struggles daily.  She is still the same size she was a year ago. And the deep dark circles under her eyes are worse now. But it really shouldn't be cause for these sudden waves of crushing sadness. Nothing dramatic has happened, yet I am having dramatic, inexplicable reactions.


Perhaps if I kept a log, I'd know where it all is coming from. Perhaps if I saw myself from the outside, I'd question why this hasn't happened all along. Perhaps 7.5 years of living in an emergency has finally worn me down and I can no longer keep myself together. Perhaps there is no answer. Perhaps that is the answer.


  1. I've been thinking of you and stopped by to see if you're okay. I wish things were so much different for you and that there was something I could do. Sending you strength.

    1. Thank you. I think I'm okay today. We push through, trying to make as many happy memories as possible along the way.


Having a child with a CHD is like being given an extra sense---the true ability to appreciate life. Each breath, each hug, each meal is a blessing when you've watched your child live off a ventilator, trapped in an ICU bed, being fed through a tube. Each minute is a miracle when you've watched your child almost die and come back to you.
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