Only the Lonely

I'm ignoring the clock, the date. I'm not acknowledging that Friday was five year since my baby shower, Sunday was three years since I last saw my son alive and saw his smile, the today is three years since we said goodbye. I'm obviously doing a wonderful job of not letting those thoughts seep in.

Grief is a lonely disease. No matter how many people you share it with, even if you live with the other parent of the lost child. You are never at the same place. And when one of you is great at expressing yourself through writing but not communicating out loud, it makes it difficult to have a real heart to heart. Conversations are broken and clipped. We don't want to see each other's pain because it hurts to much.

Last night we lied under the covers in the dark, not talking, barely breathing. Minutes becoming hours. Neither sleeping. "I don't want it to be tomorrow." "I know." Our only acknowledgement because it hurts too much to talk about it out loud.

We've learned to help each other in our ways. We give space and cling at the same time. Robert takes a week over every year, though it never feels like enough. During the day, he writes his stories while I read and read. We play with Meghan and do school with her. We take turns taking her places to give each other time to grieve in private. Then at night, after she's in bed, we lay in the darkness, spooned together praying for tomorrow to never come.

The loneliness is the worst. There are those that treat the month of August like any other month, but just offer a little more kindness, some words of encouragement. Then there's the ones who feel so uncomfortable that instead of just not saying anything about Max, they just avoid me altogether, as if my grief is contagious. Or maybe the act of being around me will rub off and kill their own children. Maybe they think I won't notice, but when suddenly the Facebook messages, texts, and phone calls cease I do notice. I don't expect people step outside of their comfort zone, but it does hurt to be cut off completely. Suddenly I feel like a leper instead of a friend, and that's not a feeling anyone wants to have.