The Same

In "A Grief Observed," C.S. Lewis wrote: "No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear."  He was right.  It is not that I am always afraid (although I do have fears which are the subject of another day, another entry, ) I just have the sensation of fear at all times.  I wake up with a nervousness in my stomach that does not go away, and my heart races until I calm myself down...my palms are sweaty and I have an extreme sense of thirst.  Isn't that strange?  How fear makes you thirsty?  In the hospital I must have drunk a gallon of water a day.  It is such a disconcerting feeling, having fear of your own feelings, which is, I guess, what that sensation I feel means.  I know what it is like to be anxious, to be panicky, to be sick, all in one emotion...that is pretty scary.  Maybe that's why it is such a fearful sensation that constantly resides in my soul.

Today, I am starting to come to the realization we will never be the "same."  Obviously, you think to yourselves.  But I don't mean that as literally as it seems.  Clearly, we will always have a precious soul missing from our family, and for that reason alone, we will never be the same.  I was aware of that the minute we left the hospital.  No, what I am talking about is a different, deeper kind of "same."  I will never be the same wife or mother after going what I've been through.  I hope and pray I come out of this a better wife and mother for I know what it means to have loved and lost.  I also know it is just as easy to go the other way and close myself off and resent my children and husband.  But that path seems, even in my cloudy vision for the future, one I definitely want to stray from, so I am doing everything my strength will allow to make sure that does not happen.  Although I feel like the same Ashley - I still love chicken burritos, a good bath and a great pair of shoes - I am not the same Ashley I was before having and losing Webb.  Although I still love the same music, the same people, enjoy good company and have managed to maintain a scintilla of a sense of humor, inside, I realize I am a very changed person.  I suspect I will just keep changing and evolving as God sees fit.  Last night, after much prayer, which basically just said "Lord, please help me," over and over, God and I decided I would get through this tragedy and be myself, but a better person for it.  I know I (we) will have to work at it, but that is what I want and that is what Zac and my children need.  

I realized I have been avoiding the twins' room.  Well, I go into it everyday, obviously, because it is still Whit's room, and I see the things in the room many, many times in a day.  But I have been avoiding actually "seeing" the room.  Today, while Zac bathed the boys and I went to get Whit's pajamas, I started absorbing just a small part of the big part that is missing from that room.  I looked at Webb's monogrammed overalls he never got to wear and the ones he wore on Bo's birthday.  I picked up his jacket and held it close to my face for just a second.  And then, I stood over his empty crib, gripped the rails, and sobbed real "out loud" sobs for the first time in a long time.  It's the crib he and Whit shared until they were 4 months old.  He lay in it several hours a day for the past 18 months, and it was the place where I put him pretty much the last time I saw him conscious.  That crib is hard for me.  But I know it is just a physical thing, and I know when we are ready, it will be removed, but I cannot do it yet.  Right now, I still need that crib next to Whit's for some reason.  There are countless things I have not put up, partly because he and Whit were so intertwined, it doesn't make much sense to pack up Webb's things, because, really, they shared most of what they had.  One day I will be strong enough and time will pass enough where putting up the crib and baby clothes will be a natural evolution.  Whit will soon be out of this stage altogether, and all the clothes will have to be moved.  I keep telling myself that is why I haven't put some things away, put the truth is, it is just too painful right now to do that.  It seems too severe, too "final."  

Thank you for praying for us and for letting me pour my soul out to you everyday.  It may seem like such a public way to document a private journey, but it is helping.  Bit by bit, word by word, it is helping.