I am heavy I am heavy I am heavy
Today, I cried over a bowl of canned soup while watching Chicken Run on Netflix. It took me all the energy I had to open the can, pour it into my favorite mug, and shove it into the microwave.
Today a friend of mine cried on my shoulder and when she pulled away the amount of makeup smeared on her cheeks seemed impossible and not a bit endearing.
Grief is not romantic.
It is not beautiful.
Today was the two year anniversary of my oldest sister’s death. She died a mere six months after being diagnosed with a combination of stages two and four glioblastoma. A brain tumor.
Glioblastoma is not poetic.
Not much rhymes with tumor.
I have tried to write this blog post six times.
This is not a poem. I just can’t make paragraphs right now.
If I try to edit this post I will never put it up.
I have this really vivid memory of the car ride home from Baltimore after dad’s first surgery. I distinctly remember pulling into the big fancy entrance at FSU and going around to the back of Pullen Hall to drop dad off so he could grab some things from his office. I can see quite clearly the green of the trees and I remember feeling kinda weird cause he was sitting in the passenger seat instead of driving. I was sitting behind mom on the driver’s side and I kept looking at the big thick flap of skin stapled together behind his left ear. And I remember that it had white peach fuzz that had started to grow on it over the couple of weeks he spent in recovery. I had the nearly irresistible urge to touch it.
Mom and Blair and I came to DC to meet Tara and Charles when he brought her home from the hospital after her one and only surgery and they had let her keep all her long, blonde hair, but they hadn’t bothered to help her brush it or clean any of the blood out of it. The staples ran like a headband across the top of her head and mom used a thick-toothed translucent plastic comb to get the gunk out of her hair so it could be washed. One of her eyes was stuck shut and her mouth drooped a bit at the corner, but she was talking the best she could and seemed cheerful but exhausted. We sat in the living room for hours in the bright sunlight while mom combed her hair and we all drank blueberry smoothies with peanut butter.
My dad died on the last day of seventh grade. He lived for nine months after being diagnosed with stage four glioblastoma.
I was twelve. My little sister was eight.
I don’t talk to my family on four specific days out of the year.
I let myself be sad on four specific days out of the year.
I tried to write this blog post seven times.
I tried to write this blog post for my first post but it was not my day to grieve yet.
Tomorrow I will wake up and tuck everything neatly back into the box labeled October 13, 2012.
Tomorrow I will make myself be okay.
I will unpack it again on December 1st.
I will unpack it again on June 10th.
(it will be seven years)
I will unpack it again on July 31st.
It is heavy It is heavy It is heavy
Nobody ever taught me how to grieve and I am heavy.
I am so so heavy.