7 February 2012 – Today

Today, is one of those days when I wonder what has happened to my sanity and myself (yesterday was one of those days as well).

Today, my husband kissed his sons goodbye and wished them well on their first day of Year 2. Then he went to work.

Today, my sons and I rode our bicycles to their first day in Year 2. We found their class and their class mates surrounded by lots of excitement. There was yelling and calling to friends across the quadrangle. There was happiness that they were in classes with their friends; although not in the same class as each other, which is probably a good thing.

Today, my daughter did not begin Year 4. I saw Adam, who Clea was going to marry in Kindergarten. I saw Bailey, who Clea was going to marry in Year 1. But I did not see Clea.

Today, my sons told me to leave because they did not need me hanging around. They had their friends and their new teachers. They were happy and safe.

Today, I rode my bike home, alone, and cried for my daughter (and, of course, for myself). I sat alone and wondered what I was doing and why.

Today, I drove to an eye hospital to meet my parents and have lunch with them. My mother had cataracts taken out. I listened to my mother talk about people I do not know and about the new townhouse they will move into shortly. She gave me more boxes of ‘stuff’ she has cleaned out from her house – toys that are too young for my sons, old piano exam results, old school reports – all ‘stuff’ that I do not need and neither does she.

Today, I watched the confusion in my father’s face as he realised that he did not know where he was. I wondered whether he flits in and out of insanity or whether he is almost always within.

Today, I felt sorry for my parents and for myself. I drove home trying to decide whether insanity was such a bad thing. I wrote a poem once called ‘Waiting for Death or Insanity’. I don’t care which but anything is better than sanity sometimes.

Today, I will ride my bike back to the school and ride home with my sons. I will listen to their excited chatter about their first day in Year 2. And I will remember the little girl who never quite got to Year 2.

Today, it is 123 weeks since my only daughter died in a tsunami.

Today.

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About huntersoledad

Mother of three. Bereaved mother of one. Survivor and victim of 2009 Samoan tsunami. Could be if would be writer.
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4 Responses to 7 February 2012 – Today

  1. Cindyss says:

    Reading this, I am remembering sitting in my older son’s kindergarten orientation some 20 years ago and at one point not being able to speak as my eyes filled with tears- I could only think about how my daughter would never experience that and we would never be sitting there for her. It is a sad reality that every experience with our other children becomes a mixed bag of emotions of joy for them but pain for what is lost. I do feel your pain and wish there were a way to whisk it away- it is a terrible thing. I can tell you it does get easier to live with as time goes by and I hope you can find some comfort in your boys. Peace to you…

    • You might be right: it does get easier because it has to, because otherwise it is absolute insanity that takes hold of your mind.
      As time goes by, it is the blow that softens, not the pain. Unlike losing another relative, a father, for instance (that’s my experience), the pain remains and will forever remain because when one loses a child, one loses the future; when one loses a parent (just an example), one loses the past. One can live without the past (as many migrant stories attest to), but it’s not as easy to live without the future.

      • Cindyss says:

        Yes, I still do look at various life events that would be occurring in my daughter’s life as they come up and very much feel their absence, like high school graduation.
        We are fortunate to live in a very small town and the principal was very understanding so we were able to place a vase of flowers on the stage in her name with the class of kids she would have been with had she lived even tho she was just a baby. It was just a small thing that meant something to us.
        It is an incredible thing how strong that bond is between a parent and a child that it lasts and reaches beyond life and death. And you are right that it is so different than any other. My father died when I was younger and it was very hard for me but so very different than I could ever have imagined this loss to be.

  2. Annalise says:

    Today, I’m thinking of you & praying too.

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