Just Give Me a Quiet Place to Lose My Sh!t

           The mood is somber here at triple M today. It’s been 9 days since my daughter unexpectedly left us from what we believe to be an undiagnosed cardiac issue. It’s been 9 days since I lost one fourth of my heart.

            I am from the generation that was told, “If you don’t stop crying, I’ll give you a reason to cry.” The generation taught that tears were a weakness, and feelings were for sissies. The generation where it was the oldest child’s responsibility to set an example for their siblings. We were raised to shove those pesky feelings down so deep that we wouldn’t be able to find them with a map and a microscope.

            After the initial shock and the rivers of (sissy) tears of that first day, I found myself to be almost numb. Everyone expected me to be a sobbing mess on the floor, but it’s hard to fall apart when you’ve lived so long being told to hold it together. Even if you’re only held together by duct tape and sheer strength of will. Humor is the crutch holding me upright. I lean on it pretty hard. “How can you joke at a time like this?” Because if I don’t laugh, I’ll crumble into 1,000 pieces.

And oldest daughters don’t break.

After the shock came the decision fatigue. You don’t realize how much has goes into the planning of a funeral. Obituary, prayer cards, burial versus cremation, flowers, headstones, burial plots...it’s a lot. I survived those first few days by checking items off a list. But at the end of the day, I felt like one more decision to make might have just sent me over the edge. If you had asked me if I wanted chocolate ice cream or strawberry, it probably would have short circuited my brain.

We have been fortunate enough to have a beautiful support system of family, friends and co-workers. Many times over the past week we were told “If you need anything, please let me know.” Which would be great if we knew what we needed. But we didn’t. We still don’t. We are taking everything one day at a time, one hour at a time, one minute at a time. We are Dory and tell ourselves to just keep swimming.

“Please let me know if there’s anything you need.”

I need my child. I need a lifetime more of memories. I need to see their face every Sunday at the dinner table. I need song recommendations and Tik Toks sent at 1 AM. I need a time machine so that I can go back and hold on to that last hug a little longer.

But I can’t say that.

So instead, I smile and say, “Thank you.”  

My oldest son, who was closest to his sister, said he was angry that the world has continued in her absence. When answering work call questions, he wants to ask, “Haven’t you heard the news?” And I get it. Because our world has ceased to be the same. We have to find our new normal. We envy those who haven’t had a catastrophic event turn everything upside down.

So I put on my brave face for the world. The one that says “Yes, I will survive this tragedy.” I will try to find out how to live in a world without that beautiful soul that should be here. I will try not to be angry with a deity that would take a life so young, one that had barely lived. And I will try to find a quiet place to grieve and cry my sissy tears.  

 

 

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