The second year is more difficult, they said. I couldn't imagine it could possibly be more painful than they rawness of those first few weeks. When the tears were constantly flowing and my chest felt like it would collapse from the heartache. I am still not sure it is more difficult, but it certainly is different.
I go about my routine and although Waverly is always present in my thoughts, my mind knows she has died. I no longer glance into my mirror and expect to see her smiling face. My internal alarm clock no longer goes off at 9:30 reminding me to hook up her feeding pump for her overnight meal. Yet I still stutter when asking for a table for three.
When grief descends, it comes like a fog. Rolling in from the distance, I can see it approach and feel the change. Ominous and oppressive, it takes it's hold and settles in. For a while I find comfort in it. I can hide and burrow, allowing myself to feel. Moody.
I am in the fog now. I have dear friends dealing with serious complications from Sanfilippo. A friend's daughter passed away this week. I find myself back there, in the weeks before Waverly died remembering the awfulness of death. The tension of wanting her suffering to end, but knowing that losing her would be utter devastation.
And as I sit in this fog, I see Oliver. Clearly. And I panic.