Well, it's been 8 weeks, plus a day. Today was an okay, no, pretty okay day. I hesitate to say 'good' because that would be misleading, in that people might actually assume I'm better. Anyway, I think today made up for Friday, which blew. It was my first night alone since I had Isla. Tim was on evenings, Evan went to bed around 8 and I had 4 hours of uninterrupted wallowing time. And wallow I did. Deeply. Grief is an interesting emotion, I'm discovering. It's always there with you, like a body part almost, yet in different strengths. In fact, I think I'll liken it to a toothache, since I have one of those too. Lucky me. So my grief, like my toothache, is omnipresent. It's constantly there, in my awareness, just existing. Sometimes, I feel a sense of pressure, not exactly pain, just an awareness that something feels different around that tooth, but I can't quite put my finger on it. Sometimes, I'll avoid chewing on that side altogether, to avoid any chance of a flare up. Sometimes, I tease it a little. I'll send a small bit of food over to that side and test the waters... does the tooth hurt when I push food into it? Does it feel okay? I feel like I do this with my grief a bit too. Sometimes I totally ignore it. I don't want to even entertain the possibility of a meltdown because I'm in public, or because I don't want to be a killjoy or because I'm just so god damned tired of crying. Sometimes, I deliberately bring it on... I'll listen to sad songs and look through her pictures and have it out. The toothache, when it hurts, HURTS. Sometimes all I can do to get through the pain is pop a few ibuprofens, close my eyes and rock until the pain subsides. It's white searing pain, and every time it flares up, I curse that I waited so long to book the root canal I can't get in for until December 7th. Grieving is like that for me too. Sometimes, the ache of missing Isla is so intense, so physically palpable, all I can do is hold her blanket, or myself, and just rock while I sob. And I do sob. Sometimes so loudly and fiercely that my fillings vibrate. That's never happened before, and sometimes, the power with which it comes out of me scares me a bit. What am I capable of? How is this stuff inside me? How can I manage to have a somewhat normal day and then collapse into a heap in the evening? It's bizarre to me.

The other thing about grief I've been thinking about is how it reminds me of a wave. Like I'm in the ocean, and far out I see a big wave coming in. I see that it's building in strength and intensity, and I speed up to get to shore before it reaches me. In reality, I could escape a water wave, and get safely on the shore and continue merrily on my way. But I can't escape this. There is no safe shore to run towards. The wave just keeps building, and I keep running, faster and checking over my back to see if it's still there. By running from it, and refusing to allow it to wash over me, it somehow seems stronger and more powerful, and might consume me. But, inevitably, since I know I cannot outrun this wave, I acquiesce. I turn into it, face it full on and let it crash down on me. This is my grief. No matter how much I try not to think about Isla, keep her door closed, read books on trying again, try to run from the suffocating grief or whatever, it does not work, and this wave smothers me. So I let it, eventually. What choice do I have? And yet, once I am soaked in it, once I've screamed, sobbed, wailed and somehow squeezed every bit of emotion out of me, the wave ebbs. It's power is gone, it skulks back out to sea, until the next time. I am left battered and wrung out, physically exhausted and spent. Yet, in some odd way, it's kind of empowering. I'm no longer running from this wave; it's relented, for now. I've beat it once again, and come out alive.

I think the anticipation of a heavy grieving experience is worse than the actual experience itself. The dread of coming face to face with the anguish and despair is awful, but somehow, during my sobs, looking at her pictures, listening to sad songs, it isn't as bad as anticipating it. Somehow, this is my way of 'being with Isla' if that makes any sense. It's an intimate time, between her and me, and I actually kind of treasure it. That must sound so odd in light of what I wrote Friday, but whatever, I'm not above contradicting myself, if that's what it seems I'm doing here. In some weird way, these times where I grieve Isla so intensely, while they hurt like nothing I've ever experienced, connect me to her in a very intimate, maternal way. It feels worse to spend the day dreading the impending blowout than actually enduring the blowout itself. I probably won't feel that way next time I have one, or hell, even 5 minutes from now, but if I have to live with this grief the rest of my life, which I do, then I have to find some way to reconcile it into my every day existence. William Faulkner once said "given a choice between grief and nothing, I'd choose grief." I thought this was preposterous the first time I heard it, but I think I understand: While not a pleasant emotion, grief is a connection to something, a feeling that represents a certain depth of love, in pain. So for me, if the choice is to be connected to my daughter in pain, or not be connected to her at all, I choose pain. As awful as it is, I will take it. Sweet dreams baby girl, mommy's missing you tonight.
xoxoxo