It's been 15 months since Kamila left her body. In the first weeks the waves hit every 5 minutes. Now I can go up to one month before I make my next dreaded encounter.
I am learning that waves are not a relapse but more like the process of crashing into a reality that can't be real.
From what I have been told we all experience grief waves differently. I hope that my own experience with them can help other people navigating the harshness of grief. I relied completely on 3 mothers in North Bay who had lost a child to point me up and out from the deepest hole underground - or was it underwater? It is so difficult to rely on words to articulate how they come for me, but I will try my best.
The waves don't just show up when I've been triggered. Sometimes they start as small, quiet waves, lapping up onto shore. Subtle at first, but the heaviness starts to slow me down and gives me an overwhelming urge to back-out of plans or commitments for the day. 'Stay in bed', it starts to say. The heaviness pushes with more weight and intensity when sorrow makes its visit known.
I start to make lists from my bed, trying to use what energy I do have to keep my life moving forward. But then even that becomes too difficult. I feel the weight of the waves getting stronger, louder; getting my full attention.
And then I see it coming.
The wave that knocks me off my feet and pulls me away from shore. The force of the wave pulls me under water, and then flips me back up. This twisting and turning happens again and again and takes my breath away with every turn. My entire body bears down with it, as though pushing through a uterine contraction. Each muscle in my body seizes, fully flexed, as though I am protecting myself from slamming into the unyielding rocky cliffs. My hands grip the headboard in a desperate attempt to protect myself from impact.
Panic sets in because I can't see the end in sight, and I don't trust that my body can withstand all of the pain that is rushing through it. No life raft, no lighthouse. No air bag between me and the cliffs. Just me contracting through the pain, desperately searching for my breath. This moment feels permanent, infinite, as though it will never end.
Then suddenly, before I know it, the water starts to calm, and there I am floating on top of it. Rocked by the rhythm of the ocean and letting myself be carried like a piece of driftwood. Sometimes the pain of this labour is so great, that I am convinced that I will never see light again. But then the phone rings, or pings with a text from a friend or family member. I am distracted for a moment and realize that I am in my bed, hands clenching onto my headboard with all my might. I release my grip, unfurl my hands; and welcome the distraction. I'm too exhausted to explain what I am going through. I just say I'm having a hard day. I close my eyes and allow the exhaustion to become my lighthouse, and for sleep to become my raft.
When I wake up, I rise again. I recommit to living my life as fully as possible for my sweet girl who didn't get to live past 19.
What you shared all makes sense of the senselessness of the loss. Thank you, take good care.💜
It is difficult for those of us who have not suffered such a devastating loss to understand the levels of grief you survive through. You have described the waves of grief in such a way that I can profoundly appreciate the difficulties you experienced and, as well, the evolution of that grief. You are often in my thoughts.
Such a heartbreaking but true description of what you have been going through my sweet daughter💔
What an amazing description of what you have been going through