Don't You Know This Life Goes On

This week I am further reminded that grief is a process. It seems to sit on your shoulder and when you least expect it, knocking you to the floor. With both Jess and Bob, there was the possibility of paralysis or a traumatic brain injury if either had survived. I often think what life would be like in that scenario. I used to say that it was probably better that they passed because both were such able bodied people and that it would've been particularly difficult to see them go through a recovery. That statement alone is a way to justify the outcome by compartmentalizing the pain in the short term. No one teaches you how to deal with this. I have tried running, sleep aids, vacationing, wine, throwing myself into work, journaling; it just makes the day a little easier yet, it doesn't fully fill the void. Not that I have tried, but I wouldn't recommend any of these remedies at the same time.


My memories with both of them currently stand still in time. I will get older, experiencing life as it comes, while the two of them are forever 21 and 26. On my way to work in the middle of our recent snowstorm, David Gray came up on shuffle. Very fondly, I can recall even what the air felt like that particular night when 5 girls sat on the VIP rooftop deck listening to him sing "This Years Love" live. In addition to the concert, we all laughed about Jess's new collection of mason jars which she had scoured CraigsList for, meeting lots of interesting people all in the name of table decorations for her upcoming wedding. My last memory of Bob, we were in Orlando reflecting back on memories and guessing what our next steps were long after a reception had ended, and then he left me with a hug that is still imprinted on my shoulders. I have tried to take those memories and replace them over the last images I have of the two of them; Jess in the ICU on a respirator and Bob in his favorite suit in a casket. Vivid and somewhat morbid, I know. Perhaps its part of the human experience to sort through shock in order to find clarity, one day at a time.