Okay and Not so Okay

This is how I roll. It's a little fun, if I were to be an optimist of sorts...wondering whether I was going to wake up and be ready to take on the day or whether the day was going to take me on.

And over.

And then send me right back to bed.

And I'm not entirely certain whether this is normal or not since most mothers who have daughters never have to feel life drift out of them and then learn to survive without them. The few mommies I do know who have felt this anguish are wonderful and kind.

But they are broken too.

We are a broken club. Don't join us.

As for me, most of my days are currently taking me over. The pain of losing Piper has not diminished in any way, shape or form and really is only worsening. The ache I have to hold her is so incredibly real that I find myself rocking in the shower with my arms positioned to hold her as I did so many times before. It's not uncommon for me to walk into the kitchen and in my minds eye to see her standing next to the fridge with a cup, preparing to get herself some water. When I look out across the balcony to check on Linley playing on the playground I swear I can see Pipers little arms and legs entwined in the rails and hear her voice call out.

She's here but shes so very far away.

Tonight Linley went to bed with tears in her eyes. She's so worried that I am going to die. And I don't know how to reassure her because truthfully, I should die before her. So I just point her to Jesus and sob internally that death and mortality is so much more real to her than it should ever be to a 7 year old.

That part is so not okay.

The part that is okay is the part where I have yet to ignore Linley while wallowing. I have yet to remain slovenly and unkept for more than 48 hours at a time. My family is getting frequent healthy meals and my home is in as much order as 800 sq ft can possibly be.

And my youngest is in eternity.

What is not okay is that showers means torrential and silent tears. That I automatically unlock the backseat doors every time I park the car because I can't remember to not need to get Piper out of her carseat. I still shut down in massive ways whenever Linley is gone on a playdate and I feel no need or desire to blow my hair dry or wear mascara.


Again, I don't know if this is normal.

I suspect it is because how can one possibly love their child to the fullest extent and not break down should that child cease to draw breathe. I cannot. The only time I feel truly stable is when I am absorbed with Linley...pool, playdates, pedicures and movies. Staying busy and trying to forget the hurt.

And nope, that doesn't help because it just comes barreling back at me the minute I am out of public view. In order to not feel the full, mind numbing pain that is in losing a daughter, I would have to forget her short existence. And that doesn't work for me either because she was an amazing little presence in my world for far too short a time.

There must be no way around this but to go through it. Daily. One sobby shower session at a time and each little sock or scribble that I run across.

I've found that in great suffering you learn whether or not your beliefs have base. Whether the words you spout to another who has hurt will ring true in your ears when you are in pain or whether you will find that your tongue only speaks pretty jibberish and your heart is numb. I have found that the words I have read and the beliefs that I have imagined myself to be trusting on are as solid as the rocks I walk across. The word of God is neither frivolous nor meandering and it is the very faith that I have in each vowel and consonant that God has put forth that has kept this walking wounded mother from despair. Only this trust. Only this. Only.