For Thor - 7 - Explosion

There are a million cross-currents running through all of us who are grieving your death, Thor. I've tried to gain my bearings and get a feel for these unpredictable rogue waves and whirlpools that toss me about from moment to moment, hour to hour. There is no pattern, but I am beginning to recognize the edges, the boundaries of what I can absorb before I am shaken to the core and cannot breathe.

There are other travelers on this sea of grief; trying to make their way and they, too, are blinded by tears and heartbreak. They have other ways of coping with this horror. Sometimes we find ourselves very much in each others way and looking to the other one to yield, to give a little room.

A skilled negotiator, usually, I can make almost any situation work for all concerned. But not now. All the nerves in my body are stripped bare and raw to the tiniest hint of stress. The barest idea of taking on more right now is overwhelming. The usual agreements your dad and I have in dealing with a the little compromises in our relationship are off the table right now. I feel selfish for not being able to continue to expand in this way; to accommodate these old contracts at a time when he needs me to do it.

Mainly, I am scared that I won't have the necessary skills to be gracious, magnanimous, adapting, empathetic, listening - my usual strong suits. I am afraid I'll lash out and cause harm when everyone is in so much pain, already. That I won't have a filter or the will to use it; that I'll say or do something that will just be plain mean.

We had a huge fight last night. It had been brewing. Everything is so intense right now that we haven't been able to talk, so a fight was inevitable. Your dad wants or needs me to give ground and I, for the first time ever, cannot do it. I collapsed under this weight in the kitchen floor and sobbed. I am usually so strong and capable. I can compartmentalize and move through all kinds of trauma, stress, unease, unpleasantness with empathy. Not now.

He tried to give me a comforting pep talk, holding my hands there in the kitchen floor. It just made it worse. He doesn't realize the depth of what I am feeling. Your poor dad, he has the hardest time choosing the right words to tell me, I just end up angrier…remember the other boys…have to get your shit together for them (and me, was implied)…come on don't flip out like this. And then when he can't reach me, he loses his patience and storms away yelling at me. I know the intensity of my grief scares him because he can't fix it. No one can, I try to remind him. It just fucking sucks.

We hurled verbal barbs at each other for a while. Testing the limits of our relationship and love.  Exposing other hurts that had gone unreconciled over time. That's one thing about grief, it strips you bare. To the bone. There is nowhere to hide those parts of me that I'd really rather no one had to see.  Your dad's hurt eyes begged and pleaded with me with me to show him that the gal he loves, that I, am still in here. His plea went unanswered.  I don't know where I am or who I will become when all this blows over. I know I love him. That is all. I hope it's enough.

Later, when we'd yelled and cried ourselves to being empty hulls, I rested my forehead on his back and then a hand and he turned to me. He is haunted by seeing your body at the scene of the wreck. I wasn't permitted to go, so he went for both of us, to kiss you on the forehead like I used to when you were a baby and hold your hand. He did that because I asked him to. I couldn't bear the idea of your body going anywhere without love and comfort from your parents. 

I feel so sorry that I cannot graciously do this thing he needs me to do. I'm being selfish and I know it.  We are doing it, grace or not, and I will be praying that I can find some shred of decorum and strength to cope - for him. For his sake, I'll get up off the floor and quietly take a Xanax and weather this shit.  Next week, we are going to find a grief counselor for us and the boys.  We need new tools so we can begin to rebuild our Family Ship.