It’s been four years since the last day I have touched Quinlan. It’s been four years living with this grief that I never thought possible. It’s been four years since Quinlan died.
I wish I could say it has gotten easier, but it hasn’t. It’s different, but it’s not easier. In some ways it’s getting harder as time goes on. I didn’t think that was supposed to happen. Isn’t “time supposed to heal all wounds”? Nope, it’s bullshit. Try imagining never seeing your child again, and tell me how much time you think it would take for you to be healed from that.
Yesterday I was good. Then last night when I had time to be alone (granted it wasn’t long, just enough time to drive to pick up take out) I wasn’t good. I broke down and felt like I wouldn’t be able to stop. But then I did and I was ok again. If you had asked me last night, my idea was to stay in bed all day today because that’s how I was feeling then. But now, I’m out of bed, took a shower and even got dressed.
That’s the thing with grief. Who knows how I’m going to be in a minute, an hour, tomorrow. I’d say “even after four years” I have no clue how I’m going to feel but I’m still a rookie in this vilomah world. I’ve been told even after 10 and 20 years I’m still going to be living these days with no direction. And I certainly believe it.
Today just feels icky. I want it to be tomorrow. There are times when I want to sit in the pain, but today I don’t, although I feel like because it’s January 30th I have to.
January 30, a day forever and ever tattooed on my brain. From the 5:30am alarms and nurse screaming my name, to being told by the doctor in that tiny room that my child “didn’t make it”, to the fogginess of the day, feeling so thirsty, never haven’t felt so much love surrounding us, to running my fingers through Quinlan’s hair that one last time. It’s a day that will never be the same again.