Spring Blues

I can sum up the last few months with the following:

January- sucked.
February- didn't suck bad at all.
March- sucked worse than January and February.
April- sucking the worst of all.
Side note- if you're judging my repeated use of the word "suck" I would kindly suggest that you leave now.  Really, I don't need any judgment in my life.

The one absolute I've learned since Matthew died is that grief makes no sense at all.  The days that you think will be horrible are not so bad, and the days that you think will be great turn out to be really hard.  It's a completely unpredictable ride.  The sheer unpredictability of it is exhausting and for someone who appreciates a sense of control in my life....well, it doesn't make things easy.

All winter long, I told myself "spring will be better."  The sun will shine, the temperatures will get warmer, flowers will bloom.  I'll start exercising regularly.  How could that not bring some happiness? 

Winter and grief go together really well.  It's cold and grey.  You can wear yoga pants and sweats and stay indoors for days at a time and it's ok.  You can eat comfort food without guilt, because when Spring comes, you'll be exercising regularly.  I didn't feel like we were necessarily missing out on anything during winter.  Sure, there was no basketball...but it didn't sting too badly.  We skipped the Silver Mountain ski trip because we have another trip planned for Spring, but even that didn't bother me too badly.   

As the days got longer and the sunnier, something strange happened.  One particularly warm and sunny day, Megan, Steve and I walked to the frozen yogurt store near our house.  From there, we walked to the meat market and picked up some steak for dinner.  On the way home, we passed the park and it hit me.  It was a perfect Spring day and Matthew should be here to enjoy it.  It's hard for me to describe, but it's those "perfect" moments where Matthew's absence grows exponentially and the grief swallows he whole.  As I drive home every day, I expect to see all the neighborhood kids outside playing...and Matthew is missing.  When I look outside, there is only one child playing-alone-without her brother.  

One of the widow's in my brain tumor group described this as the "oh f***, he's REALLY gone" phase.  Yep, that sums it up really well.  That thought is like a phrase stuck on repeat in my head.  I literally think it multiple times a day.  It's like Groudhog Day gone horribly wrong.

There are still those moments where I'm able to wrap our experience in a pretty package, complete with a bow.  Those moments where I can convince myself that even though Matthew was only here 11 years, he had a wonderful life.  Those moments where I can look back on memories and laugh and smile and just appreciate them for what they are.  Unfortunately, right now, there are more moments where the package falls apart and I'm just sad. 

As I usually do, I am coming back to this post about a week after I started it.  In that week, the tides have once again turned and things are looking just a little brighter.  Even with that, I walked into Matthew's room last night to close his window before bed and it literally took my breath away when it hit me once again that he's really gone.  Five months later, it still takes my breath away.  The other evening, we were going down to the Little League fields to watch a game (Steve is coaching again this year) and as we were getting ready- the thought popped into my head "I need to put sunscreen on Matthew."  Just when you think you are doing ok, you are reminded your son is never coming back.

As our first Easter without Matthew approaches, I can't help but miss him a little more this week.  When we went shopping for Megan's dress, I didn't have to worry about coordinating the colors with Matthew's clothes.  We won't need to hard boil 40 eggs this year so each child will have plenty to decorate.  There will only be one child in front of the tree for Easter pictures.  Our annual Easter egg coloring selfie will be missing one.  For the first year ever, we purchased a memorial Easter Lilly at church...because we have someone to memorialize.  I'll still make him an Easter basket (and donate all the gifts as we did with Valentine's) because it hurts too much NOT to make him one.  We'll shake up our routine, because somehow that seems to make things less horrible.   We'll get through it and then check another "first" off the list.

So, what does five months fee like?  Isolating.  Lonely.  Sad.  Breathless.  Sometimes hopeful.  Overwhelming.  Discouraging.  Confusing.   Sometimes ok.

With Matthew in my Heart, Nikki