March 27th, 2008
I’ll just say this right now – this is a continuation of my grieving process. At first, I contemplated not writing more on how I am feeling right now, thinking it might be “too much.” But too much for whom? It’s not as though I have scores of readers – and even if I did, as much as this is public, it is still my blog, and it should reflect my thoughts and my life. If you’ve read enough of my grief, sign off now and check back in a couple of days, when I will be no less upset but perhaps less inclined to write about it, I don’t know. For now, though, I have to go with what I’m feeling.
Which is really just loss.
It’s so odd how, upon losing someone, you feel as though the world should pause for a while as you regroup. It feels almost sacrilegious to have to go through the regular motions of life when someone very close to you has just lost their life. And because I tend to have a very morbid bent, every thought and action begins to get tinged with it. I eat something, and it occurs to me that he will never eat again. I look at Pudding, and think that Emmanuel was once a small boy just like him – and is now gone. Then I look at Pudding and realize that he, too, will one day be old and then gone – long long after I myself have departed, I pray. We’re all headed down that road, slowly dying with every breath.
The more his unrelenting absence hits me, the more dazed I feel. I think that’s the best word for it, dazed. It is still slowly sinking in that he is gone. I know this intellectually, but it still seems impossible. I actually had a moment earlier today where I felt that it was a mistake, or that I’d dreamt it. I keep thinking of all his work, and how I’ll never be able to call him again, to ask for advice, or a prayer, or to say hello. It just seems so terribly wrong, that there must be a mistake somewhere, somehow. I keep waiting for the phone call saing ooops! we screwed up, wasn’t him!
I called his cell phone. I don’t suppose that will be on for much longer, but for now, I wanted to hear his reassuring, gravelly grandfatherly voice, with its French cadence. Last week I read a story about a man whose long-dead wife’s voice was still on a voicemail message that he played daily just to feel close to her again. The phone company inadvertently removed it, but was able, after hearing of his plight, to retrieve it once again and put it back on his system. I know some small portion of what that man feels. For me, it’s still strange to hear Emmanuel’s voice on that voicemail and know that the essence behind it is gone, or at least no longer here on this plane. My heart keeps arguing that if his voice is still there, then he is, right? It just makes sense that a voice cannot exist without the person behind it. This is what my heart tells me, that it’s not about technology but about spirit.
I pray for him every day. I prayed when he was ill and I pray even more fervently now that he is gone, praying for myself and my family as well as for him. I hate grieving, I hate this whole period of disbelief where your world has been turned upside-down and you pray for a miracle that you know is not going to happen. It is a part of life, I know, but it is an awfully wrenching set of feelings that are disabling, fatiguing and frightening, and that are literally making me sick to my stomach.