Wednesday, September 23, 2009Tonight’s picture captures Mattie’s first day of Kindergarten. Before he left our home to head to SSSAS on September 5, 2007, I snapped a picture of him. I thought he looked so cute and grown up in his school’s dress code. We were happy, excited, and scared on that day, because I wasn’t sure how Mattie would adjust to a full day of school. Turns out he adjusted just fine and loved SSSAS.
Tuesday night, I ended up going to sleep before 3am. That was a significant change for me, but of course too soon for me to say that I am breaking my toxic PICU sleeping pattern. I am finding helping Ann keeps my mind quite busy, which for me is a good thing. It is quite nice to be staying in her house, and to be getting a temporary break from the memories that are stuffed inside our home. In a way, I feel like I am on a retreat. Not that I don’t carry Mattie’s death with me every second of the day, I most certainly do. I live and breathe this loss, but being able to assist such a special family helps me feel connected to this world, and to some extent gives me a purpose. If I wasn’t helping Ann with Mary and Sully right now, I think my situation would be much more complex and grave.
I miss Mattie greatly, but I also am very aware of my lack of emotions over his death. I range in how I feel and how I interpret my true inability to cry and process things. On one hand I feel confused by this reaction, but then on the other hand, as a mental health professional, I know this is very normal. Grief doesn’t look the same for everyone, especially immediately after a traumatic loss. So my shock and numbness is understandable, and I must come to peace with where I am. I can’t push myself to feel something I am just not ready to feel or face.
This afternoon, while I was with Mary and Sully, we were visited by Margaret (my friend and Mattie’s first preschool teacher). Margaret spoiled us with chocolate cake and brought me a few other goodies. We all had a nice conversation together, and I was telling Mary and Margaret, that I just feel nothing now. I don’t feel pain, I don’t feel sadness, I don’t feel anger, I just don’t FEEL! For those of you who know me well, know that I can always be counted on for one thing….. and that is to be able to put a description to how I am feeling, with emphasis on feeling. I usually feel everything, but now I am so grief stricken, my mind and body are unable to feel. Which would explain how I operate on a major lack of sleep and with very little food. Food no longer tastes good or is of interest to me, nor do I digest it well. Thirteen months of intense stress are catching up with me and are being expressed in all sorts of ways. So I have come to appreciate where I am now with Mattie’s loss. I am trying not to question it, but instead accept it and allow myself to feel or not feel whatever I need to, in order to survive one day into the next.
While I am spending time with Mary and Sully, Peter is helping Ann with her children and other chores she needs to get done during any given day in addition to working on the foundation. I know that for Peter too, feeling useful and helping Ann is therapeutic. Peter is somehow able to interact with Ann’s children, and children in general, without breaking down, and I admire him for his ability to do this. I am not saying it is easy for him, but I on the other hand, know I am NOT ready to see Mattie’s school or be around a group of children.
Today, I sat down with Ann, as we are trying to organize things for Mattie’s funeral. She started to help us with ‘to do’ lists, and as Ann knows seeing what I need to do on paper for the funeral is not easy for me, yet must be done in order to accomplish the things I want for the service and reception. I guess a part of me is not only in denial, but I feel that if the funeral doesn’t happen (which of course is illogical) then perhaps I don’t need to really say good-bye to Mattie. It is funny how the mind works and desperately tries to rationalize away such great hurt and pain.
Ann’s mother is 80 years old, and despite not being in good health, she has enough where with all, to know how I am feeling, or not feeling, and today while I was talking to Margaret, Mary was actively listening, smiling, and reassuring my feelings. In a way, Mary and Sully just know where I am at, and words are not necessarily needed for them, because they too feel the great pain of losing a son. In a way, being understood, is a powerful force, which I clearly appreciate and accept as a gift.
I would like to end tonight’s posting with a message my mom sent to me today. My mom wrote, “I was profoundly affected by my awareness that today marked two weeks that Mattie passed from our world. I could not help but reflect on how much life has changed since he is no longer with us. Simply put, life was beautiful when Mattie was with us, alive and healthy, inspiring us to see familiar things anew through the eyes of his creative, sensitive, and limitless imagination. Everyday seemed perfect, nothing seemed too challenging, and his joy, laughter, and zest for life made optimists of all of us. It was a vision of life through rose-colored glasses that focused on Mattie’s magical ability to creative exciting moments for us to treasure as we watched him grow up and develop into a loving, caring, and insightful child. In our hearts we always believed that his future would be bright and that his happy childhood was a precursor to a life ahead filled with many milestones for us to celebrate as his future unfolded. When cancer took Mattie from our midst, we suddenly confronted the loss of his physical presence in our daily lives, and it felt as if “our sun,” the center of our “universe” had been taken away from us. Life as we knew it would be forever be bitter-sweet! Sweet because we still feel blessed to have had Mattie in our lives for seven memorable years. Bitter because Mattie was taken from us forever, by a vicious, unforgiving and deadly disease for his time. The sadness that resides eternally in our hearts is a testament to our pessimistic understanding that life now without him could never be the same!”
I miss Mattie greatly, but I also am very aware of my lack of emotions over his death. I range in how I feel and how I interpret my true inability to cry and process things. On one hand I feel confused by this reaction, but then on the other hand, as a mental health professional, I know this is very normal. Grief doesn’t look the same for everyone, especially immediately after a traumatic loss. So my shock and numbness is understandable, and I must come to peace with where I am. I can’t push myself to feel something I am just not ready to feel or face.
This afternoon, while I was with Mary and Sully, we were visited by Margaret (my friend and Mattie’s first preschool teacher). Margaret spoiled us with chocolate cake and brought me a few other goodies. We all had a nice conversation together, and I was telling Mary and Margaret, that I just feel nothing now. I don’t feel pain, I don’t feel sadness, I don’t feel anger, I just don’t FEEL! For those of you who know me well, know that I can always be counted on for one thing….. and that is to be able to put a description to how I am feeling, with emphasis on feeling. I usually feel everything, but now I am so grief stricken, my mind and body are unable to feel. Which would explain how I operate on a major lack of sleep and with very little food. Food no longer tastes good or is of interest to me, nor do I digest it well. Thirteen months of intense stress are catching up with me and are being expressed in all sorts of ways. So I have come to appreciate where I am now with Mattie’s loss. I am trying not to question it, but instead accept it and allow myself to feel or not feel whatever I need to, in order to survive one day into the next.
While I am spending time with Mary and Sully, Peter is helping Ann with her children and other chores she needs to get done during any given day in addition to working on the foundation. I know that for Peter too, feeling useful and helping Ann is therapeutic. Peter is somehow able to interact with Ann’s children, and children in general, without breaking down, and I admire him for his ability to do this. I am not saying it is easy for him, but I on the other hand, know I am NOT ready to see Mattie’s school or be around a group of children.
Today, I sat down with Ann, as we are trying to organize things for Mattie’s funeral. She started to help us with ‘to do’ lists, and as Ann knows seeing what I need to do on paper for the funeral is not easy for me, yet must be done in order to accomplish the things I want for the service and reception. I guess a part of me is not only in denial, but I feel that if the funeral doesn’t happen (which of course is illogical) then perhaps I don’t need to really say good-bye to Mattie. It is funny how the mind works and desperately tries to rationalize away such great hurt and pain.
Ann’s mother is 80 years old, and despite not being in good health, she has enough where with all, to know how I am feeling, or not feeling, and today while I was talking to Margaret, Mary was actively listening, smiling, and reassuring my feelings. In a way, Mary and Sully just know where I am at, and words are not necessarily needed for them, because they too feel the great pain of losing a son. In a way, being understood, is a powerful force, which I clearly appreciate and accept as a gift.
I would like to end tonight’s posting with a message my mom sent to me today. My mom wrote, “I was profoundly affected by my awareness that today marked two weeks that Mattie passed from our world. I could not help but reflect on how much life has changed since he is no longer with us. Simply put, life was beautiful when Mattie was with us, alive and healthy, inspiring us to see familiar things anew through the eyes of his creative, sensitive, and limitless imagination. Everyday seemed perfect, nothing seemed too challenging, and his joy, laughter, and zest for life made optimists of all of us. It was a vision of life through rose-colored glasses that focused on Mattie’s magical ability to creative exciting moments for us to treasure as we watched him grow up and develop into a loving, caring, and insightful child. In our hearts we always believed that his future would be bright and that his happy childhood was a precursor to a life ahead filled with many milestones for us to celebrate as his future unfolded. When cancer took Mattie from our midst, we suddenly confronted the loss of his physical presence in our daily lives, and it felt as if “our sun,” the center of our “universe” had been taken away from us. Life as we knew it would be forever be bitter-sweet! Sweet because we still feel blessed to have had Mattie in our lives for seven memorable years. Bitter because Mattie was taken from us forever, by a vicious, unforgiving and deadly disease for his time. The sadness that resides eternally in our hearts is a testament to our pessimistic understanding that life now without him could never be the same!”
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