An Imperfect Analogy

There is a quote floating around on the internet grief sites that says:  I don’t think people understand that when I say I think about you every day, I really mean every day.  That quote struck me as inaccurate.  Then I thought about it some more.  It came from a normal grief site, not a site for grieving parents, so maybe it is accurate for some types of grief.  But I think it is a gross understatement for a grieving mother.  I tried to correct it in my head.  I tried every hour, that wasn’t right.  I tried every minute, but that wasn’t right either.  It isn’t a thing that can be measured in time.   It is more of a measure of intensity.

By that I mean, that there is really never a second I am not aware of my daughter and my grief.  Sometimes it floats in the back of my consciousness and I function quite well, almost like a whole person.  Other times it punches me right between the eyes and I do not function at all for a while.  I came up with a little analogy that I like quite a lot.

Grieving my daughter is like I imagine it would be to lose my left arm.  I am right handed.  I can function with my right hand.  Some things are going to be a little inconvenient with only one hand (opening a door with something in my hand).  Some things will be much harder (turning a cartwheel, pushing a wheelbarrow).  Some things I will have to completely relearn to do a new way (type, tie my shoes).  Other things are simply impossible (playing a clarinet, carrying a large, heavy object).

One thing I know for sure, I will never be unaware that I don’t have that arm any longer.  It won’t slip my mind.  All that will change is the fierceness with which I am missing that arm.  Am I frustrated by an inconvenience or am I screaming with rage and frustration at what I can no longer do?  It just depends on the circumstances. 

Do I feel my arm still?  People say you do.  I certainly feel Michaela still; sometimes more than others.  Do I still unconsciously try to do things with that arm before I realize it isn’t there.  I’m sure I do that too.  I certainly still think, at times, that I need to remember to tell Michaela something, or I should buy something for Michaela for Christmas.  Less often now than I used to, just like eventually I would get used to not having my arm.  I wouldn’t forget about my arm missing, I would just adjust to not having it.  It would be futile not to adjust.  It would be impossible not to adjust in some way.  I’m sure some people adjust in more healthy ways than others.  Some people might lose their arm and find a way to excel as a one armed person.  Others might hold onto anger and never really adjust.  

 

I’m sure that when I would be thinking about my missing arm, that I wouldn’t be visualizing my fingers and my fingernails and my wrist.  I would be missing the functionality of that arm.  I would be missing the essence of that arm.  That is how I miss Michaela.  I don’t have her face plastered in my mind every minute of the day, but the essence of who she was (and who she would have been) lingers around me like the smell of flowers on a spring day.  It fades and swells and sometimes blows across my face with such a sweet smell that it makes me lift my head, breathe deeply and smile.