Guilt & Shame

Mourning is messy.

This is a small glimpse into Oliver's bedroom. His dresser is stacked high with cards, letters, left over programs from his funeral, paperwork from hospice and copies of his death certificate in that big manilla envelope. There are boxes scattered on the floor filled with toys and candle holders. His backpack is still hanging from his closet door with a progress report sticking out of the unzipped pouch.

None of this matters to me or bothers me at the moment. It's not time. I want to continue living among the memories of his life as it was - magical thinking. I first read Joan Didion's book titled The Year of Magical Thinking in the days before Oliver was born. I read it again last year in the months before he died. It is a quasi-reality state where one believes that which happened didn't or, in my case, that I can somehow will myself to change the course the events.

It is all a very normal aspect of grief. I can convince myself that if I try hard enough I can go back and stop Oliver's death. It is incredibly intense when I look at photos or videos from the months prior to his passing. I then have to logically talk myself through the events, glossing over the traumatic end, and remember that he is, in fact, dead.

I don't remember this feeling after Waverly died. I think it may be because my life continued on in much the same way. Muscle memories kicked in and care taking for only one child, while different, was much the same. I struggled with the heaviness of end of life decisions Matt and I had to make, yet when I we spoke about them rationally, I was able to quiet the internal voice of guilt.

Now I am floundering. I have lost my daughter. I have lost my son. I have lost myself. My role as their caregiver is gone and I am unsure how to even begin to move forward. Oliver's death was very traumatic. It was unlike Waverly's, which was relatively peaceful and in our home. Oliver's was chaotic and rife with pain. He suffered and I have tremendous guilt that I was unable to prevent it. I am angry with the medical professionals who cared for him, because I do not think they listened to our screams of concern. I haven't been able to revisit his final days, because I am simply too fragile to withstand the tremendous pain.

My sorrow, my lament is covered by a thick layer of guilt and shame. Guilt that I failed Oliver. Shame that I am so mired down by my grief. Grieving isn't only intense sadness. It is a conglomeration of emotions - sadness, anger, guilt, shame, exhaustion, isolation, avoidance, embarrassment, rawness, fear and so much more.

So here I sit almost three months after Oliver's death. My barometer for what constitutes is good day has dramatically shifted. Showering, eating, taking a walk, making coffee, brushing the dogs, meeting with a friend are all seen as successes. And in the midst of me barely getting out of bed, I watch Matt. He is up early, working a stressful job, full of energy to cook and clean. His response to grief is staying active and doing. I struggle with comparison - the thief of joy. Why is he so strong and capable? Why I am so weak and broken? Yet I thank God that he is able to provide for us, to carry the load. Joy and Sorrow. Pride and Shame. Gratitude and Guilt. All mashed together in this thing we call grief.