There are many times that I stand in front of you, and you see me, but you only see what you can see.
Often whilst I stand in front of you my body is collapsing. It begins slowly…then splinters… a thousand shards of skin falling, piercing, scratching at flesh as it falls, painful. Until bits of me lie scattered at my feet. Sore and numb I quietly bend over and as I extend my hand to touch my bits they begin to glow softly, life returning.
As I gather them to me, they become soft and pliable, warm and safe and I wrap myself within myself once more.
My skin, myself shatters often, but to you and the world I look like me, the person you see and know. And I hide it so well.
There are other moments that my chest feels like it is about to explode. There is a feeling of expansion, as if every space around my heart has ballooned and is pushing all my breath out making it hard to breathe. It hurts. At other times its a tightness as if everything is constricting, sucking my breath from me.
And all the while you engage with me I am experiencing my grief moments. I swallow with difficulty, smile and reply.
These are events that I cannot blurt out and say ‘”hey I’m having a moment!” It is nothing you can see or touch so it is not easy to understand. I often wish that when you (whomever) are in front of me and I am experiencing this, that you could know so that I do not always have to do it on my own. But in truth, you cannot help me with this, and if you knew it was occurring it would create issues in that moment, you would feel helpless, or the group at a social occasion would feel uncomfortable, or it would disrupt the harmony in the work flow.
It’s my reality and grief that I must carry.
Writing this is not to upset you, it is just what I have to cope with and to learn to accept as part of myself. Not every day, mostly unexpectedly at random moments. As each day passes I learn to wear it more easily. And slipping in and out of these moments is becoming part of my life routine.
Don’t tell me to get better. That will not happen…ever. I work hard to keep my mind busy and I try to enjoy every day. I suffer quietly, in silence. I cry and I write. I remember and I shout, or talk to my children. I feel and I love. And I laugh.
I embrace you and those around me and I thank you for holding my hand, as the friendship, love and support sustains me and helps me feel whole.
Milestone days of remembrance are a reminder of the minutes, hours, days that Aidan (and Laila) are not with me. I sometimes feel that Aidan is following my life in parallel , piloting a boat, and meandering downstream waiting for us to intersect at that final waterfall of life and collide as we fly over, together.
To those who suffer – I wish all good things for you, and moments of great happiness and joy.
My boy…Aidan Cale
25/6/1986 to 20/10/2010
