Laurustina

I am psychically stuck.

Paralyzed.

Today marks eight months since Ashlie’s death and my “To Do” list is still full of items like: finish Thank You notes … respond to letter from transplant family … send Brianna those photos … go through the keepsake boxes in the garage and find stuffed Blue dog.

I have passed the one-year mark of unemployment. Six month old mail sits unopened on my desk. Each day bleeds into the next, marked only by the passage of calendar pages and rare occasions (a baby shower here, a dinner out with friends there). A good day is one in which nothing specifically rotten happens and dinner is tasty and my sister consents to watching some silly reality schlock or a decent detective show with me before bed. Entire days pass during which I speak to no one beyond these four walls. I still sleep 8 to 10 hours a night and often nap  in the afternoon. The easiest hours of any day are between 5 and 10.

I haven’t cleaned out my car or had a hair cut, gone to the movies or written anything longer than a six paragraph e-mail.  The herb garden that died on   the side porch in June is still a terra cotta graveyard of twigs, now half-hidden by the branches of the rose tree, which spill over the fence from the next-door neighbor’s backyard. I am incaipable of making decisions. I frequently drop things for no discernable reason.  I rarely pick up the phone when it rings, no matter who might be on the other end of the line. I check my e-mail once every couple of days and have stopped trying to explain myself to old friends who take such things personally.

Anger is still the easiest emotion to sink into , or maybe I should say that it is where I feel safest. And there are plenty of things to get angry about. The state of our healthcare system, the state of the union, the state of my relationship with this person or that one … yes, angry suits me just fine and is a fearless barrier to the terror of grief. Tenderness is ok sometimes too, especially in light of the baby girls that have been popping up every couple of months, ’round the edges of my life, first Noelle, then darling Eilidh and now a grand-niece Christine. What I feared might be too sad, is surprisingly soothing and sweet.

The grief though, stalks me day and night. Always over my shoulder, or winking from some corner, even at the best of moments. She is my silent companion, waiting and hoping and begging for you and I to say her name.