Broken

I keep waiting for a day that feels even a little bit normal to write something. It is simply in my nature to want to be positive. I do have good moments and times with family and friends that are joyful. But for the most part of almost every day I feel empty. Grief is a lonely place. No one can go there with you, and as much as I have faith that Abby is fine and I am not alone, it will take time to put some of that broken back together.

I've been thinking of the shooting in Connecticut (as we all have) and know how awful it will be for those parents as they bury their children. They must somehow learn to live with this awful tragedy in a landscape that no longer makes sense. My heart breaks for them and for us all over again.

Every day parents lose their children. We aren't unique at all. Our lives are only special because Abby was so special. Her incredibly difficult, challenging, beautiful life made us special.

Her laugh, kisses, and love of helping me in the kitchen are daily voids (chasm might be the word I need here). I miss her pushing me to be more and do more. I can't believe I even miss how demanding she was. She wasn't ever going to settle. I miss agonizing over a Christmas present for her. I never knew what to buy. I had such anxiety every Christmas, but she loved everything she got. Mostly, she just wanted to open the packages.

She really is a sweet kid.

So I have all of this running around my head, and I never know what to do with it. Where does all this grief go?

Before, life was really, really hard. But it was active and busy. We were always moving and trying to keep up. I feel passive now. It's like sorrow is something that happens to me. I have time to deal with it, but I don't know how. I'm swamped with images of not only her death, but her life. Even after she's gone, I wish it could have been easier for her. I still feel so bad that she suffered the way she did. It doesn't just go away because she did.

Christmas is only days away and I just want to get it over with. I've wrapped all the presents I normally would, made cookies, planned meals, shopped, and worked like always. Nothing is like always though. If I stop for even one second and think of my daughter, I cry and feel awful.

I poured my heart and soul into her life; into the faith it took walk beside her. I know I still have 3 children, but none of them have ever needed the way Abby did. I learned to live in her needs. We all did. Now, I'm lost in a way I've never been before.

Our hospice social worker continues to follow us for a year. Over and over she tries to remind me how loved Abby was, and how much she loved in return. I know that's true, and I'm thankful for it, but it doesn't change the brokenness of life without her.

I am praying that somewhere I find some merry in our Christmas, and can enjoy the gift that I know life is, and the gift we celebrate that day. I pray you do too.