I stood on the doorstep trying to take a photo a photo of the sun rising. (Apparently I've also lost my ability to operate my camera. I stood there in the doorway as the sunrise began with my camera staring at the controls - I knew what I wanted to change but not how to do it.)
Today's was the second sunrise I've seen since that last Saturday.
I've been sleeping through them all, until yesterday.
I know that had Finn not died
I would be on that doorstep every morning
with an infant in the Moby
and a camera in my hands.
I've imagined that image for a long time.
Watching sunrises (and moon-rises) with Finn was something I was so looking forward to. There is so much to watch from his window - every window. I imagined playing I Spy with him, and told him so. In the few days we had together in our chair by the window I talked to him about all the things I could see - that he soon would, and how much fun the two of us were going to have watching the world go 'round before our eyes. |
| his hair his precious precious hair look at how perfect his little head is |
"Finn watches freighters from the front door." was how I captioned this photo. Edie commented that I should take the same shot every year of his life - I thought that was such a great idea. I imagined so many years of sitting on the steps with him, watching cars go by eating popsicles.
My head is full of all these imagined moments; I think of all the things I was going to do with him and sink when reality reminds me he's gone... and I'll be doing these things without him. For so long the only thing I've imagined myself doing was being a new mom again - the walks we would be going on, the swim classes I had eagerly looked into in August, Kindermusic, and all the mommy and me activities ...not only all of those things, but the images of how I would be going about daily tasks with a young person again, and looking forward to simple things like having him in the swing in the middle of the kitchen while I cooked, or trying to take a shower when there's nobody else around. Doing these things now feels awkward ... it takes me a few seconds to realize why it feels awkward - again the sinking feeling sets in. It's that emptiness again. I miss him so incredibly much.
I was awake around three this morning. Couldn't sleep, head swirling with too many horrible images. Images I'm to be facing and dealing with, but hurt too much right now so I keep trying to cover them up with memories of Finn when he was alive, when he was home, when everything was so good. The painful memories haunt me in my sleep, wake me rattled, weak, disoriented.
I've been having regular acupuncture sessions with Sarah since Finn's death which, as always, have been extremely helpful and healing. It's not just the needles but her compassion, friendship, gentleness, and calming presence. She's been working a lot on breathing, and how to use concentrated breaths to help pull me together when images and reality make me fall apart. I've been holding my breath - I catch myself doing it often, only realizing what I'm doing when my body suddenly gasps for air. I immediately think of Finn, his death, and I panic. Sarah's breathing techniques don't stop the breath holding from happening, but if I can get it together in time hopefully I can eventually learn to take a concentrated breath before the panic sets in.
I tried to breathe last night - just breathe.. I told myself to think of nothing but breathing. It's so much harder to do than it should be.
I tried to think about nothing but my breaths and the steps I took on a walk yesterday, trying to tune my body, get some rhythm back. It was impossible. I probably looked drunk stumbling along the sidewalk. My postpartum body doesn't know how to sort itself out. My hips are still sore, shifting. My incision is still open and being packed every day by VON nurses and distracted me the whole time I walked. It hurt through it's numbness - kind of like all of me. I'm in a fog, I'm numb, I hurt.
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