"With Or Without You"--U2

I've been trying the best I can. It's hard to live your life without you mother. If Mom were here she'd tell me exactly what to do, or what not to do. Now that she's gone, I feel unsure about everything. I have to try to maintain some sort of normalcy for my children while I grieve.They seem to be better at this than I am. That's why I'm telling you all this. Some if it is so much like ripping off a ginormous bandage and letting the wound get some air. It still hurts like hell, but I'm not sure I want everyone looking at it. And yet I can't hold it all in.

When I came back from the hospital that dreadful Wednesday evening, announcing to Anna that we were going to Dad's she looked up at me from where she was pulling on her shoes in the floor and said, "Is GG okay?"

"No, baby, she's not okay," I tried not to sob, somehow managed to choke back the tears, "GG died."

She didn't say anything. She thudded down the stairs and out onto my cousin's front porch where my husband, Jamie, and Addison were hanging out.

"What was I supposed to say? Was that right?" I looked through my tears at my cousin, and she hugged me, reassured me that she'd be okay. She said kids are resilient, that they handle things better than we do sometimes. They know they're supposed to react with sadness, but they don't get extremely upset like adults can.

"I know you're tired. You all are welcome to stay here again tonight," she said. She was so sweet, everything she had done, taking care of my kids, making us dinner. It was hard to turn her down.

"Everybody's going back to Dad's. I just want to go home, so we'll all be together," I said, trying to regain my composure. She agreed that it would be good to be together, but insisted on sending food with us.

"Mom told me the bad news," Anna-Lee said to Jamie when she stepped outside. He explained to her, with Addison seated on the steps beside her, that GG was in heaven with their other grandmothers and that meant there was one more angel in heaven watching over us. Children are amazing, but it is hard to judge how much they comprehend at two years old. Anna-Lee had hopped up and run to play with her cousin before we left--as if that bit of melancholy conversation was enough.

"My GG. My GG," Addison said sadly; she understood more than we gave her credit for. I'm glad I wasn't there to hear that, because I don't think that I could have kept from sobbing uncontrollably.

When we arrived home, at my parents' house, it was eerie. Addison never asked where GG was. Didn't go running through the house looking for her, like she had so often done. She knew. I wouldn't have been able to explain it if she had asked. I just didn't say anything at all to Addison about it. I was glad that she didn't ask then, but I knew the time would come.

Dad told Addison that GG is in heaven--at the visitation she had been staring at Mom in her coffin and Dad told her that that was just GG's body and that she was in heaven. In the car on the way back to the Ville, Addison told Anna-Lee, "GG's in heaven. It's okay, Sissy. GG's in heaven."

May 27, 2010

I was fixing Addison some oatmeal when, from her perch on her high chair, she said, with the biggest smile on her face, “GG died.”

She repeated it several times. And, each time fighting back my tears, I said, “I know.”

I wondered if she was associating the right emotion with this statement. The giant smile on her face told me no.

“Doesn’t it make you sad that GG is gone? It makes me sad. You know that’s what happens when someone dies—you don’t get to see them anymore?” I told her. Was that the right thing to say? Was it right that I told her the crushing truth? Mom would know.

She nodded her head, her smile was gone.

“Sissy, Sissy. Where’s Sissy?” she asked.

“She’s at school.”

“Daddy, Daddy. Where’s Daddy?” she said, as if she were making sure that they weren’t dead and gone as well.

"He went to the store, he'll be back in a few minutes."

“Where’s Mommy?”

“I’m right here, baby,” I discreetly wiped my tears away before turning to her. I tried to give her a reassuring smile as I sat her bowl of oatmeal on the table in front of her.

“Feed me, Mommy,” and I did, as if she were still a baby.

“Do you miss your GG?” I asked. She nodded in response.

 “Me too.”

“You too?” she queried.

“Me too.”