I Keen Quietly

by | Nov 12, 2010 | 1 comment

And the grief is awoken again.

I had a productive afternoon, but then decided to start working on one of what I call “memorial projects.”  I want to collect every word you said about Audrey that I have in writing- either in emails, FB picture comments, letters you sent from tour, or emails from before she was born- and create one document for her to see when she’s older and read just a little bit of what her father thought of her- his enthusiasm and great, deep love for her.

So, I started out with my FB photos- which you commented on while you were away mostly.

But being on my profile which I rarely am, I started to scroll down- and before I knew it, I was scrolling all the way down to the day I found out you were dead.

That’s when the keening and moaning began again.  I keen quietly though because I do not want my daughter to hear her mom moaning in the next room- even if she’s just half-awake.  How frightening that would be for her.

I read all of the kind words of support and love from friends.  I am surprised by how many people tell me how strong and graceful I’m being- how inspiring I am- just days or weeks after your death.  Did they believe that I was really me?  The physical and mental shock I experienced was like nothing else I’ve ever been through in my life.  Even labor came on so much more gently.  This was a ringing phone, words, “Dan is dead.  He drowned swimming in Lake Geneva,” and screaming- my wet bathing suit thrown over the shower stall where it still hangs today, me darting around the apartment with a toddler at my heels, trying to figure out who to call or what to do.  

Afterwards I remember telling your brother repeatedly that you had died in Sweden.  I was so confused then.

Another thing that strikes me is that I posted every few minutes throughout the early morning from about 5 am on the next day.  And in one of those posts, I comment on how it gets worse every day I’m further away from you- but this was only the first day.  It must have felt so much longer.  Time became moot at that point.

I read through the posts and people’s responses and writings to me, and I cry remembering what it felt like to announce to the world that you were dead…to receive condolence after condolence to the surreal news.

I am thoroughly drained now.  But I’ve read that when one starts going back over the initial trauma, even though it feels like going backwards, it’s actually another step towards healing.  I really hope so.  But I have learned, I have no say in any of this.  I have no choice- I must surrender…

So I keen and I cry quietly on the bed I worked hard to clear off finally today.  And I stop and look up at no one or nothing and say out loud, “This is f–kin insane,” because it is.  Mostly I think lately, “This is unfair, it’s just so unfair.”

I read all the posts on my profile wall until I get to the one on the day that I last saw your face- June 29th.  I rarely posted on FB before this, but I find I posted about you leaving us for the tour again:

“missing my husband who is once again gone for another month on another continent. at least i have someone fun to keep me company. today she said the word “goodbye” for the first time to her appa.”

I didn’t remember this detail at all, but find it stirring that the first time Audrey said the word goodbye was to you- and truly 
her goodbye.  


November 12, 2010

1 Comment

  1. Anonymous

    and I keen for you.


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