this is what grief looks like

Every time I sit down to stare at the computer monitor, I start thinking about the topic/topics I want to bang out on the keyboard to release or blow off some careless steam. I think about discussing odd topics such as my intense desire to get my girl's to quit singing Lady Gaga's "Disco Stick" before next month's first day of school. Catholic School that is. Oh, how I hate both yet celebrate Moira being in Pre-K, writing her name and reciting verbatim the words to this delightful song. I'm sure she WILL get student of the year for such insightful antics.

I also think about how I want to discuss and debate my and my husband's new love for Rock Band II and how this game has taken over our Karaoke showdowns with other couples and friends. We have spent many an intense conversation trying to figure out if Wii has the fog machine and strobe lights that shoots fog and beams lights to the beat of the music. Because THIS is what keeps our marriage together after a shitty day with two screaming girls and crappy clients. Clearly, if you don't know what the Sam-hell I'm talking about, you need to stop reading here. You didn't take the time to read far enough in my archives to know, KARAOKE is what keeps a/our marriage alive. Not counseling. Not drugs but singing with your baby on a Saturday night. Go ahead and sing your inner Pat Benatar's heart out while strumming your fake guitar like you are a rock star god/goddess. I will accept all forms of payment in exchange for this pertinent information. Honestly, you will thank me in the morning.

I also think maybe I should share with the world how I learned how to make sparkler bombs by way of the tutelage from my Mortician friend on the 4th but realize, that's really not a good idea. Maybe sharing this info would be way TOO much information for you tender peeps. Because I have found, there are A LOT of loose cannons out there, so-to-speak and I would hate to be responsible for another tragic event.

Or maybe, I should inform you all know that Malt-O-Meal has issued a warning "for possible Salmonella contamination" with all the boxes on the shelf dated 2009 - 2010 as suspect. I say this as I throw away two boxes of the only meal my youngest has consumed in the past two months (and who is going to refund me my $5.00?). Why test fate, even though we haven't been killed yet with this threat, there is always a next time.... Cynical much? Why, yes. I am. Thank you.

Instead, I choose to go all deep again and share with you what grief looks like in the Gorillabuns household. Specifically, when time stopped, crashed and burned in a fiery explosion for us on Good Friday/Easter and failed to start ticking forward in certain portions of our house. If I were a really good storyteller (which I am not and totally know my limitations), I'd show you EVERYTHING. The good, bad and ugly but instead, I left this side-show wreckage for my good friend to help me assimilate/dissimilate/destroy these past few weeks. I would say we but instead I will say SHE managed to pilfer and sort a truly disgusting mess to come up with an end product that makes my girls shout with glee. Yea! We can find our clothes! Yea! We know where our shoes are! Yea! I didn't know I owned that! Yea! I want to finally invite friends over since our floor is now used for actual feet, not toe and foot impediment bombs. I don't think I'll ever be able to repay her for her fortitude to sort through 11 bags of donations and 5 bags of trash while organizing every bit of the tedious and sad, sad way. Wow, after re-reading that sentence, my house sounds truly disgusting. Well, I do have to admit, the girl's room wasn't changed or messed with since Thalon's death. Mainly because, I didn't have the energy to fuck with it. Mainly because, they didn't have the energy to fuck with it. Mainly because, who the fuck cares? We lost an integral part of our family and we are ALL depressed. Keep the blinds drawn and don't answer the door if someone knocks. That is how we have rolled for the past 12 weeks. 13 weeks tomorrow but really, who is counting?????

So, now, the girl's rooms are clean, sorted and shiny. Everything else is not. Baby steps, right? I like to tell myself this when looking at the dining room table or our bedroom or even our mantel. You see, there are still a vast array of dead flower arrangements surrounding my son's picture adorning our mantel. Dead, flimsy matter that once were part of an arrangement that befell his urn and picture at the funeral. Pieces of remembrances from friends and family that have yet to be removed but stared at daily because, I really SHOULD do something about the mess due to our crazy allergies and asthma. But I don't even breathe on them. I feel if I remove it/them, it's like he didn't happen or exist. Like it's all finally over. Even if, it's (whatever it's really is) not over. Even if, I'm fighting with the Medical Examiner's office over bull-shit and shoddy workmanship. But really, that subject is best left for another time. Another time when I have my final say. Who knows if I'll ever feel like I have my final say over this subject.

Instead, with all the cleaning and organizing, parts of our house are still a disarray. Take for instance, our bedroom. Where his swing still stands at the foot of our bed. My shirt that I last held him while dozing and embracing him happily. The shirt that I spent 6 days straight wearing because it still had his smell and spit-up proudly displayed upon. Like a shield of honor and love.

A basket of dirty clothing is still sitting next to it with a blanket perched on top.

 

The blanket in which he was lovingly wrapped with during his hospital stay. The blanket which still has his DNA matter splattered all over it in the form of blood droplets from the numerous IV's and needle pricks. The blanket in which we carefully wrapped him in when pulling the plug, so-to-speak. How can one get rid or wash these items? I won't even go into how the sleeper that he was wearing that fateful day is still lounging on our dryer that I still sniff 5 times a day to make sure I still can remember what he smelled like. The baby that I held in my womb for 9 months and loved and adored and cooed with for 3 3/4 months of his actual living and breathing life. All which are becoming a very distant memory. Fading at a very, very fast rate.

How about discussing the girl's Easter baskets and Thalon's car seat that still clutter our formal dining room table?

It's as if, time has frozen and we are all on a holiday. Trying to forget the past and only celebrate the present and future in actuality, it's truly hard to celebrate anything with the constant memory and thoughts that nag my little pee-brain. It's like I'm stuck on rewind and I can't seem to make the tape stop from jamming. I constantly relive, rework and re-hyperventilate at the thought and memory of what has transpired. Maybe it's my way of dealing with and working through it all, while remembering my son. Our son and brother. Basically, we all seem to ignore these items as if they are chairs in which we sit on and bypass daily. The box of thank you cards and the memory sign-in book from the funeral still lays where it was placed from his remembrance. We ignore and go about our business. Trying to forget yet, not.

Comments

[a]

Yep, that's what grief looks like, all right. And that's just a mild manifestation of your inner turmoil, I'm sure. Eventually, you'll find the right way to deal with these things. There's no rush.

Aside: But really, there's nothing better than singing stuff like Lady Gaga at Catholic school. Because you always get to the best part of the song right when the priest (or nun) comes wandering by.

[Kristina]

There are just no words. Hang onto all of it. Every single piece, for as long as you need. You'll know when it's time to do something with it, whatever that something might be.

[Anna]

I wish I had the right words or something poignant to say, but instead I'll just say this: I'm still praying for you and your family.

[Debby Pucci]

You will never forget and until your mind/heart tell you different you should not remove a thing. That will all come in time and don't let anyone tell you how soon that time is. Everyone has their own time.
This is such a sad time for you and your family. I pray for your comfort. Until the day comes when we meet God in person we will never be able to get the answer as to "WHY?" I wish I could Hug all you pain away.

[Vicky]

Yes, this is what grief looks like. Hang in there - what else can one do?

[-R-]

1. I love Rock Band.

2. I don't see anything wrong with keeping all those things where they are right now.

3. Thank you for sharing your thoughts and writing with all of us. You tend to be self-deprecating about your writing, but I love it.

[Aurelia]

Don't worry about it for now. I kept stuff around for a long time, and some of my friends and family eventually helped me find my table and floors. It is what it is.

I would say that if there is something truly special that you don't want a well-meaning person to wash or throw away or tidy up, maybe it's time to buy a box or set up a special place where you can collect those things. You don't have to do much with them, like set up an album or something, (Mine still isn't finished ten years on) but at least take a few sprigs from each flower arrangement, or put away the sleeper and your shirt, nicely unwashed and put them some where safe.

Take care.

[sarah]

My heart breaks for you and your family everytime I read one of your posts. I wish I could take away all the pain. Please take care.

xoxo
Sarah

[Debbie in Memphis]

Wishing I could play Rockband & sing Karaoke with you. Sending you and your family love and prayers.

[Rach]

Oh, the forgetting - the fear of forgetting.

I think of you so often...

[Michele]

I didnt wash their blanket for months. I slept with it every night and all day long. I smelled it. I felt it. I saw them in it. I touched where their heads had laid. I cried like a baby when Peter took it away from me and washed it because, in his words, "if we dont wash it and it gets funky, you will hate me for not washing it." Oh, how I cried and cried. I think he held me the entire wash cycle, then got up to dry it while I wailed, then came back and help me until he could get it out of the dryer and back in my arms. Where, I swear to you, I could still smell them. I still sleep with that blanket... A year and a half since it held my first dear son and then my first dear daughter and then my second dear son. And I sleep with it and smell them and touch where they laid, this precious blanket that held them so gently... I let him wash it from time to time, to "stop the funk" but it kills me. I dont weep as much. I hold onto the marble box that holds their ashes, knowing I can never make it funky with my tears or my sweat or my holdings. And then, when their blanket comes back, I hold them both.

You arent alone. My babies spent their entire out-of-the-womb lives in the hospital but for the longest time, I couldnt change anything that was there the day after I came home. It was too hard to think of life going on. Had they lived here with us, I know that nothing from their room would have changed. Or anything that they had touched would have changed.

[Bitts]

What wrenching photos. It seems just a little comforting to walk into your house and have it look like a baby still lives there, with his things strewn all over. Don't do a thing with them until you are absolutely ready. And please do not worry about forgetting. The good news and the bad is that you never, never will. Grief takes its own time. There's no way around but through.

Strength to you, Shana. It's been 13 fucked-up weeks. Here's hoping the next 13 may be slightly less fucked-up.

[Danny]

So, so hard. I remember one day tearing through the house with a giant garbage bag and grabbing every dead flower and petal I could find. I also did a "twin" search and got rid of every book and item related to twins. Now we have a shrine to our 75-day-old living son in our living room who has not yet been in our house but hopefully will be in ten weeks or so. At the beginning this creeped me out because I was so fearful he'd never come home. But now I'm so hopeful that he will (be gone, Evil Eye). So sorry about your tragic loss. And keep on singing your guts out.

[Johanna]

I just want to give you a huge hug, but instead I thank you for sharing. Thank you and those commenters who are also sharing so much. I am a grief counselor-in-training and have had my share of crap happen but have not been through the experience of losing a child. Your sharing helps me to understand more of what my clients are going through, so maybe I can help more instead of heaping on. I am so sorry for your loss and your pain.

[beth]

Dear Shana,

This is my first time commenting on your blog, though I have been reading for a few months. I so want to express my sorrow for your unbelievable loss but every time I try my fingers freeze and I find myself staring blankly at the screen. There is no sentiment strong enough to do justice. But, reading your blog today, I feel like I can relate. When I was 15, my older brother died in a car accident. I liken it to an atomic bomb explosion, my family stumbling through the haze blindly. Over time, the smoke began to clear and we were left to deal with the wreckage. And as time went on, we have picked up the pieces and put our life back together. No, it is not the same life, and would have been better with my brother still here...

A couple weeks after he died, I began hoarding the flowers from his arrangements, hanging them upside down in my room. I couldn't bear the idea of them getting thrown away. It enraged me that Time had the audacity to move forward in spite of Robert no longer being on this planet. My brother was very mechanically inclined; I still have a ziplock bag filled with batteries, a small motor, and other random useless objects that were scattered around his room. The smell of motor oil is sealed up in the bag. He often smelled of motor oil. For a period of time, my mother would take my brothers cremains with her from room to room, and out of town, along with his baseball cap. Some might judge, but her heart had just been ripped open and that's what she needed to do at the time. I mostly understood at the time- now that I have children of my own, I truly understand her grief on a new level.

Please be kind to yourself, take all the time you need, snuggle that sweet blankie all day long and know that plenty of people are listening and here for you.

[laura]

god i pray so hard for all of you and really have know clue what to say. when my mom passed i was 23 i sleep with her shirt for at least a year. for all of you, whatever keeps you going go with that. love and prays always

[Michele]

I'm glad you decided to keep posting and putting your thoughts/worries/concerns/frustrations/memories on your blog. I'm so sorry for your loss and pain. My thoughts continue to be with you and your family.

[Mer]

I wish there was more to say than I am so sorry. Please know your sweet Thalon is still in the thoughts of many, including me, all the time. Hoping that even a little bit of peace finds you soon.

[a madhouse wife]

I don't even know what to say. I'm praying for all of you. I just cannot even imagine what this must be like...I am glad you are taking your time with all of this and I hope you don't feel like you need to rush to make a choice.

Also? Really glad you and Rich have Rock Band and/or karaoke. All couples need something like that in the best of times, and especially in the worst of times. (Our "thing" is Netflix, since my talents only extend to sitting on the couch.)

[Applesauce]

The Wii totally doesn't have a fog machine. Or strobe lights.

Shana, I don't really know what to say other than I think you are doing an amazing job of holding your shit together.

And you can write. Geez, can you write! I hope that writing about these things gives you some kind of peace.

[Laura]

Hugs girlfriend - all in due time. It makes me happy to know you have a good friend to help.

[moosh in indy.]

dude. just. dude.

[Tricia]

I am thinking of you and sending you hugs. I think your writing is spectacularly honest and no doubt helpful to those of us that appreciate how much you encapsulate in your thoughts. I have just read your previous post and am constantly shocked and dismayed that anyone who came upon your personal blog and devastating grief, would even feel the need to make a comment that could in any way hurt or judge. It is simply beyond me. I hope that you know that there are others out here who admire your courage as a woman,mother and wife. The messiness of grief cannot simply be wrapped up in a neat parcel and delivered in the way that someone else might like. That's why your writing this all down, will not only help you process your grief, but will help someone else who may not be as incredibly articulate. Articulate about something that none of us should ever have to deal with.

You are incredible. I hope you know that. I know that your little family does and that is all you need. If I could take out a shotgun and stand guard for all those people who choose to judge you, I'd do so. I just want you to know that you touch my heart and your writing is so real. Write for yourself. Screw the rest of them. I also wish that I could offer something practical to help out. I'm not sure where you live, but if it was close to me, I'd come and clean your house and take your girls so you could have time and space for your grief. Those are the people that really matter. I'm glad your friend was able to do that. I've learnt that your true friends are the ones you find during terrible times like these. The ones with no expectations. The ones who will listen. And let you rave, cry and grieve.

If you ever want to just talk to someone, email me at irishsamom@msn.com. I know that you will get through this though. In increments. And I don't have any sage advice - why would I? I just wanted to reach out.
Take care of yourself - my mama heart hurts for yours so much.
Tricia xoxox

[Michele]

I'm another Mom thinking of you and your family, mourning for your loss and pain, and sending love across the miles. Your post and photos hurt my heart, and your beautiful Thalon is in my prayers, as are you, your hub & your girls.
Take care Shana ~ Michele in Staten Island, NY
PS - 13 weeks is a blink of an eye, I would be surprised if anything was moved or washed...in your own time, honey, in your own time.

[Kami]

Grief is one of those things that we who are not experiencing probably romanticize. The glimpse you have provided here is so real, so tangible, it makes me ache for you. And I agree with others, it's yours, own, live it, and move through it in your own time. We got your back.