Tomorrow marks six weeks. I am not sure why it is significant time, but each Tuesday night I think about December 4th. I replay the day, the night and the early morning hours when Oliver took his final breath. I revisit these moments over and over again, hoping to change the outcome. Willing a different end result.
The shock is continuing to wear off. Permanence is taking its place. Oliver is dead. My identity as caregiver is over. As I grieve my son and daughter, I also grieve the loss of myself. The entire world is open in front of me and yet all I want to do is crawl under Oliver's blankets with a book or podcast. I want to stay within my home where I can envision my children walking, sleeping, laughing. I can still smell them in the clothes hanging in closets. My hands can hold their well loved stuffies.
I have a clearer understanding of the phrase grief stricken. Battle scarred, run down, mangled. That feels like me.