Friday, March 15, 2013

Hello, Anticipation? Is Anyone There?

I won't belabor that this has been a difficult week (read Swing with Me and Free Bird), although it has been, with more extreme high and extreme lows that I've sometimes felt I can handle.  I get tired of hearing myself talk, cry, and ache from my broken heart.  I can only imagine how others may feel when they hear me.

But the process of grieving is just that - - a process.  It's completely unpredictable, often insurmountable, and the hardest work you'll ever do if you're committed to healing and being whole again.  'Cause right now - - you are not.  And I am soooo neither healed nor whole. Therefore I must continue to walk through this fire.

I've begun planning a gathering to honor Boomer in Chicago, where he lived for 30 of his 56 years.  I detest the word "memorial", so I'm not calling it that right now -- I'm wordsmithing for something less vanilla.  If you've got a creative idea, drop me note.

Boomer & SMO, 2001
While I journaled to Boomer last night about the recent days, highs and lows, planning being underway, etc., Luther Vandross', Till My Baby Comes Home, began to play on the stereo.  Another slippery slope of memories took me down again.  This time about anticipation.  Our mutual anticipation of the other one coming home after they'd been away - - either for a few hours or a few days.  We had anticipation for one another. Isn't that delicious?  What a tremendous gift - - someone lovingly anticipating your arrival.  I never knew what that was like before I knew Boomer (except for maybe my daughter, but that doesn't count here - - sorry sweetie.). 

I had to put down my journal and walk around the house to get my bearings.  If it wasn't already dark out, I would have jumped on my bike.  I found myself standing in front of Boomer's chair (read Empty Chair), my arms tightly crossed in front of me sobbing.  Next, I began to sway side-to-side.  I was overcome with a powerful mirage of Boomer standing there hugging me hard to help ease my pain like he would do -- and we'd sway as I buried my face in his chest, right at his heart center.  For a moment, it felt like it was really happening; that he was really there, hugging me, hard.   The sensation evaporated as quickly as it came.  This is some messed up anguish - - I can't determine which hurt more, the mirage or the sucky reality that I was standing there alone.   Perhaps Carly's words of Anticipation can help carry me...even if I don't eat ketchup anymore. 

Yesterday, I put bath towels in the laundry and like I typically do, forgot to put fresh ones out.  So this morning when I stepped out of the shower, saw I had no towels, I shouted out loud, "Boomer?!  Can you please bring me a clean towel?"   Hello, Anticipation?  Is Anyone There?  When I realized what I had just done, I paused and thought, "Good grief, what kind of bereavement psychosis freak am I turning into?"  

My anticipation is fractured and very displaced; Boomer isn't coming home, here with me, in physical form on earth - - ever again.   It hurts like hell.  I can't seem to make my pain stop.  My anticipation is in desperate need of recalibrating, memories alone aren't holding me up right now.  For now, I burn a little more in the fire of my grief, anticipating tomorrow I'll bounce again, one fractional step toward wholeness and healing.


  1. Oh SMO you make me cry every time. So beautiful. Thank you for letting me witness

  2. Thank you for your warm comment Lisa. You help give me strength.