I flip through the pages of Time Magazine until she breezes into the waiting room to invite me back.
“How are you today?” Her eyes sparkle, and the corners crinkle.
I flash a big smile. “Fine. Just fine!”
I climb up into the chair, and she pins the bib around my neck.
She flips on the reflector light, dons a spotlight.
“Did you have a good holiday?” She’s very chipper.
She reaches for a silver pick.
I know she expects me to say, “Great” and “How was yours?”
But I’m in the light, and so I say, “Well, not really.”
And I tell her about my mom and that’s why I’m late seeing her this time.
“I’m sorry,” she says.
And there is silence except for the sound of metal on enamel.
I study the posters on the ceiling.
Joni picks and scrapes, and I shudder with the sound.
And my mind travels to her body shaking and holding her hand and telling her it was okay.
And wondering if she even heard me.
It was “rally day,” and I wonder if the bumping and jostling of the recliner in getting her outside or the whirlpool bath afterwards had somehow shaken things up.
If this seizure would have come anyway.
At least that day.
I know better.
She squirts. I swish. Mr. Straw sucks.
I try to shake off the reality of grief.
And the anger I sometimes feel at the inability to be real about it.
I try not to think about it.
How life goes on, and how being real sometimes causes discomfort for others.
How they expect me to be strong.
I’m grateful for those with whom I can feel safe to be real.
For those who comfort with the comfort they’ve received.
For those who understand I don’t need therapy.
Who are therapy.
And I’m grateful for the reality of Him, the One acquainted with grief.
Well, wasn’t that depressing.
Never know what will come out when you let the words spill.
Laugh with your happy friends when they’re happy;
share tears when they’re down. ~Romans 12:15 (Message)
Joining Lisa Jo and community for five minutes on the word prompt REAL.
Linking, too, with Emily for her last Imperfect Prose gathering
as she steps out in faith to care for two more boys who desperately need her.
Thanks, Sandra, for being real, and if I could, and if it was okay with you, I would give you a BIG HUG, and say I’m sorry…grief and losing a loved one really stinks {feel free to substitute another word}… I have “God-bumps” as I was thinking of you and then I linked up right behind you for 5MF and I try to visit the person b4 me so I’m thinking maybe God really wanted me to visit you and give you a cyber-hug! Praying that God would continue to comfort you and let you know that it is okay to be real with Him and trusted friends.
I am taking that cyber hug, Dolly. If it’s okay with you, I’ll take two.
Sharing the God-bumps. 🙂
Hey miss Sandra. I am sorry for your loss. I’ve only just learned of it (since I’ve been internet-less for so long). I hope you lean full into the good Lord’s chest during this time.
Blessings.
I am SO glad to see you, Miss Darlene. I’m leaning full.
I actually loved this post but you made me laugh at the end with your “well wasn’t that depressing” comment. You painted a accurate picture of what grief looks like after living with it for more than a week. When the tears don’t shed as easily and the pain is not as acute.
Strange what thoughts come at the strangest times. 🙂
I’ve been thinking about you and Winston. And remembering the chin on the edge of the bed and the cold wet nose nudging me for attention. It’s been a year and a half.
Here’s what I did, when people started to suggest that maybe I should be “further along in the process” than I was.
I looked at the person, kinda firmly, and said, “I am grieving my mother WELL.”
Now, I’m not suggesting you do that. Because the last thing you need, probably the thing you’re overloaded with, is all kinds of ideas about how this should be going for you.
I am grateful for the position you’ve staked out for yourself here, Sandy. Letting your grief unfold, one slow petal at a time, until it blooms fully (if that’s not misstating your place) is one of many healthy ways to deal.
Love you. Lots and lots.
Love you lots and lots more, Sheila.
Your words give me pause because there are days I wonder if my grief is well. Yet I know it is.
I’m with you Sandra. I’d just visited my mother and discovered that her Alzheimers was progressing rapidly. At the next staff meeting, in front of everyone, my boss asked me, “So, Cheri, it must have been nice to see your mother!”
I’m still wondering how I should have responded…other than by nodding mutely, of course…
http://cherionethingivelearned.blogspot.com/2012/01/10-days-of-proverbs-31-my-heart-may.html
Oh Cheri. I can just imagine the range of emotions. I wouldn’t have known how to respond either.
I know.
I know you know.
This wasn’t depressing– it is real.All of us will go through it but it isn’t until we do that we understand. Until then,we have to accept the discomfort we might cause others with our grief. It’s sad but true. I try not to hold it against anyone but sometimes it’s hard.
You’re right, Terri. There’s so much we don’t really understand until we experience it ourselves. Good to remember that everyone carries some sort of pain.
I love the way you seamlessly go from the dental chair to your heart, then back to the dental chair. And I love real people! Beautiful job!
Oh, Sandy…tears. I just wrote three pieces — not happy, but real pieces and haven’t posted them yet, because today I’m not strong, just real. Today it hurts just to breathe, and I know in my heart that’s OK. Part of the process, something that sometimes makes others uncomfortable. I’m glad you wrote this. Glad you kept it real. I needed your words today. Thank you.
I want to add that honoring her through your memories and thoughts and the written word makes her life that much more meaningful. Those we love and have lost deserve for us to be real.
Depressing? Not in the least. Real? Yes, ma’am. And thank you for that. Some days it just plain sucks to be strong. So please give yourself permission to take a day or two off from strength now and again, okay? Sleep in, hang in your jammies, have THREE cups of tea, watch a movie that makes you smile. Whatever – whatever will allow you to unkink, let go and just be with all that you’re feeling/ Love you, thinking of you, praying for you.
Hugs…sorry for your loss.
Being real sometimes means not pretending everything is okay, not pretending you are always strong. And knowing He is real, holding on to Him…
Grief sucks. And we are SOOO scared of it, aren’t we? It’s messy and it hurts and it’s disruptive and there are so few safe places for all of that.
I am sending you many (((((hugs))))) and praying for there to be an abundance of safe places for you to be where you are in this grief.
For some reason, this reminds me of the Velveteen Rabbit and how love makes you real and how love involves grief. So it’s not depressing at all … just makes me wish you could feel all the love-hugs coming your way.
With you in spirit comfort. I laughed at Mr. Straw because it reminded me of when my dentist asked how I was doing and why I hadn’t been there in so long. That day, Mr. Straw sucked a few of my tears and it brought us all into laughter. Living together in community… in happiness and sadness, success and failure. It’s who we are, it’s what we do, it’s how we roll. I’m so proud to have you as a friend. =)
Not depressing – beautiful. Thank you for sharing your heart.
oh friend… first of all, that photo–it’s just incredible. i wish i could paint it. and secondly, grief appears to make you a stunning writer. i found myself crying at the end of this, not because it was depressing, but because it touched my core. thank you sandra. for being in the light.
Thank God for dental hygienists!
Seriously, you’re fine. It feels awful, but you’re OK.
i’m sorry, sandy. that’s a paltry offering, i know. i’m praying He will keep you close, the One who KNOWS the blistering innards of suffering and grief.
I’m so choked up (not depressed, just relating) that I can’t find my words.
I. Love. You.
Oh, I long to be a friend who is therapy. I love your heart, your words and your pictures dear friend. I hope you come over to Painting Prose this week…
So perfectly written. And so real and transparent. Grief is a process and I think you’ll find that writing about it helps.
And it helps us. Helps to give us words to understand our own process.
We should all be a safe harbor – a sanctuary for each other. Thereby providing therapy and encouragement.