Six months. How is that even possible?
How is it possible that it was six months ago today that we lost you, little brother?
I can’t decide if it seems like the past six months have crawled by, with hours and days barely seeming to pass. Or if they have flown, with days passing without so much as a blip on my radar. Most days, it feels like both. Every day, it feels like I wish I could fast-forward through all the “firsts.” First Thanksgiving. First Christmas. First second Monday of January. First…well, you get the idea. Everything.
Dealing with grief like this truly makes you feel like a crazy person. There are so many mornings when I awake, fresh from a dream about Jobear. A dream that seems so real I want to fall back to sleep as soon as possible to see him again. And I get so angry at myself when sleep eludes me. Once, around Thanksgiving, I had a dream that our family went to Florida only to discover that he was living there. He had to pretend the accident was real, he said (no reason provided, and we all just accepted it – totally rational). He said he was so sorry, but he had been waiting so impatiently for us to get down there and find him. I woke up feeling so mad at him for putting us through that, and then so happy that I had just seen him again. And briefly convinced that he was actually living in Florida and that we needed to get there as soon as possible. All of this happened within about 20 seconds.
Then the Mack Truck that is reality hits, and you realize it was a dream.
Stop. Rewind. Play. Repeat.
I tried to explain it to someone the other day. That it seems to get easier to talk to people about Jobear. It feels so good to laugh at stories about him (he was a character, to say the least – so there are LOTS of stories like this). It feels so good to talk about him and to hear other people remember him. It may make us cry to hear him remembered, but it truly does help to hear other people remember him. And, in that way, my heart seems to be feeling lighter.
But, the lows seem so much lower. There are some times when the hurt is so physical, so painful that I can’t imagine getting through the rest of the day. Tears spring into my eyes at random times, and I seem to have no control over the silly things that will remind me of him. Hearing a low-flying plane pass overhead is likely to make me happy to remember him, and/or sad to think about how much he loved flying. I mean, tell me a funny story about him and I’ll laugh my head off. Quote a line from Christmas Vacation and I’ll turn into a sobbing mess.
And? Most of the time these feelings happen during the same day. Often within minutes of each other.
Thus, the “feeling like a crazy person” and all.
I don’t know how my parents are doing this – even just getting out of bed. They are still interested in our lives and their grandchildren. They are still working. They are somehow moving forward. Not moving on, but moving forward with the motions of life. I’ve decided they are the bravest people I know. I think I want to be like them when I grow up.
This post is so “rambly,” I know. But, it’s like my brain today. Jumbled. Trying to make sense of how this could have happened. While at the same time folding laundry, making beds, getting kids ready for birthday parties. Daily life.
All I guess I wanted to say was this:
I miss you Jobear. I miss your silly laugh. Your giant bear hugs. Your arguments with me about … well, almost everything.
I miss watching what you would have done over this past 6 months. Hearing all about the job you would now have. The relationship you would be in. The house you would have bought, and the city where you would have chosen to live. The books you would have gotten my girls for Christmas (always books, which I loved). The funny texts you would have sent to me, and the silly cat videos I would have sent to you. The reaction you would have had to Family Guy killing off Brian the dog. (I don’t even watch that show, but I had to keep up on the developments, knowing this would have elicited quite the reaction from you.)
I love you, little brother. And I hope you’re not watching over us too much right now – I think it would make you so sad to be watching us grieve. Check in later – or only during the times when we’re laughing about you (which, come to think of it, might just actually be your way of checking in on us).
We love you so, so very much.