Felt fears

I feel I am coming to a closure (for now) of a few weeks of feeling some of the fears that exist within grief. 

One of the classic lines on grief that keeps popping up is from C.S. Lewis: "No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear." 

The feeling of fear is very strange and feels inappropriate in spite of its strength, but it fits too.  And it doesn't matter if you know the fears are incorrect and unfounded, they still are there and I feel them even though I know better.

I found that I hated seeing the days move on past his death and memorial service.  I kept rounding down the number of weeks that had passed and felt myself fighting the passing of time.  I felt pain at knowing how much time had passed since he left.  As if somehow if it all still only happened a few days or a week ago, I would be that much closer to holding him alive. 

It is probably related to the fear of forgetting him as we "move on" with our lives.  Again, I know better than to believe that this is true, but the process of creating a new normal for our family feels like forgetting even though it is good and necessary and right and not forgetting at all.   

I fear that his medical conditions will be remembered more than his calm, peaceful, contented personality, or his curious and flirtatious coos.

I fear the loneliness of remembering him while the days move ahead and the world goes on.  See, it is confusing; I fear both forgetting and remembering. 

I fear the cautious silence of the conversation tip-toeing around him when I suspect that others have thought of him but everyone wants to be "sensitive" so no one mentions him.  Trust me, I expect that Oliver will rarely be far from my thoughts and you can't make me feel sadder or worse by anything you say.  Yes, I may cry sometimes, but that's the risk of being my friend nowadays.  It is much nicer to talk of my baby than the lonely claustrophobia of remembering him by myself.  Thankfully this has not happened often, and
in general I am so thankful to be surrounded by such good friends who are willing to live with me through this.  They help minimize this fear by talking openly with me and accepting my general awkwardness in conversation and at play dates.

As I mentioned in my previous post, below, I feared that I was not crying as much as I should have. 

I was initially fearful of the feelings of relief, even though, just as with these other fears, I knew better and I know to accept the relief as a good, positive gift and as part of God's providence for us.

We are relieved that we are no longer in emergency mode 24/7.  We are relieved that we no longer have to manage his intensive care.  We are relieved that we are not going to have to care for him for years and decades.  We are relieved that we did not have to make a difficult choice about when his life would end.  We are relieved that each time we did have to make a decision about his care our choice was very clear to us and we do not regret anything that we did for him.  We are relieved that his death was gentle and peaceful and at home without emergency.  We are relieved that he is well and whole and at peace.  I am okay with and comforted by this great relief, and thankfully I don't feel guilty about it at all. 

I have also felt considerable comfort and healing within the strong eternal perspective that Oliver's life has left me with.  I have always tried to live in the light of eternity and have found much comfort in dwelling on the "big picture" of God's covenant plan.  Despite my efforts, the relatively petty worries and troubles of yesterday, today, and tomorrow regularly consume my thoughts.  Having someone precious "on the other side" has made my eagerness for heaven incredibly stronger, and I find that I have been living in a very different light.  (One small example of this is how I reacted to our minivan - when we purchased it I stressed over the decision and getting all the replacement parts at the right prices and such, but when it died a few weeks ago I was just ok.  It really doesn't matter - when/if we need a new one we'll figure it out.)  That eternal perspective feels literally cemented into my heart now.  When I counter the fear of time passing away from Oliver's death with the impatience of having to wait for my own death it gives me peace for the waiting. 

I am thankful to be on the upswing of addressing and acknowledging the felt fears, and they are slowly dissipating one by one, at least for now.