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|
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?"