Everything Changes
Everything has changed. Nothing has changed. That's how I feel about being home. When I drove up to my house, everything looked different. There was an abundance of green that had not been there when I left. I noticed that the speed limit on one of the local roads went up. The highway has been repaved. The annoying construction near work has moved from the left lane to the right lane. All of these seemingly inconsequential things force me to accept that I've been gone from this place for 2 months and the world kept moving. It changed in normal, everyday ways. And I still feel stuck in place.
That's the thing about tragedy, loss and long hospital stays. You're so insulated from the outside. Yet the outside keeps moving along. Ready or not, it will slam you in the face with the differences when you emerge.
Today was my first day back at work after a 60 day leave. And I was so nervous about going back. What if I forgot everything? What if I just started sobbing at my desk for no reason? How many questions would I face? Could I answer them without tears? Was I worth them holding my job for two months? What if I disappointed everyone? What if I'm not me anymore? Did this experience change me as much as it changed the outside? Of course it did. Of course it changed me. It's just a matter of how I choose to react. How I choose to use this to be better.
I don't know what better looks like yet. I've gained more patience for every year I live. And I know this is one of those things I absolutely must be patient about; I can't run through this phase. I have to walk and take in the scenery, even if it sucker punches me out of nowhere occasionally.
I didn't cry at work. I almost did countless times. But I didn't forget everything, so I could focus on my job instead of memories. I could blink back those tears and answer questions, accept hugs, and keep working. But when I got home, the floodgates opened. Because I wanted so much to call Mom and tell her about my day. To tell her about the lovely card that was waiting on me with a sweet gift from my coworkers. To tell her I didn't make a fool out of myself on my first day back. That even though I had only worked there for two months before I had to take two months off, I wasn't useless. And it's not that I can't tell other people these things. I can, I know I can. So many have offered to be my on the way home phone call. And while I appreciate it more than I can put into words, I want my mom. I want the woman who could tear me down off of my high horse with three words, then build me back up into a better version not 10 minutes later. I want the woman who knows all of my ugliness as well as all of my shiny. I want the woman who tolerated more of my shenanigans than anyone has a right to endure. Because there is no way to replace her. She was a pain in my ass as often as she was the light of my day. And I miss her.
I called my husband on my way home today. And we talked about normal everyday stuff. I didn't cry, although towards the end of the call I'm pretty sure the tears that had been dammed all day had enough, and started to shimmer in my peripheral vision. I talked to him until he got to work, until I was parked in front of our house. And I brought all of my stuff inside. Then I lost it. I changed my clothes while crying, unpacked my work bag while crying, put laundry together while crying and then sat down and put words to the feelings. Things I can't say out loud, but can type with ease.
This is when the grief starts for real. When you're back at home. Back to routine. And everything has changed. Nothing has changed.
That's the thing about tragedy, loss and long hospital stays. You're so insulated from the outside. Yet the outside keeps moving along. Ready or not, it will slam you in the face with the differences when you emerge.
Today was my first day back at work after a 60 day leave. And I was so nervous about going back. What if I forgot everything? What if I just started sobbing at my desk for no reason? How many questions would I face? Could I answer them without tears? Was I worth them holding my job for two months? What if I disappointed everyone? What if I'm not me anymore? Did this experience change me as much as it changed the outside? Of course it did. Of course it changed me. It's just a matter of how I choose to react. How I choose to use this to be better.
I don't know what better looks like yet. I've gained more patience for every year I live. And I know this is one of those things I absolutely must be patient about; I can't run through this phase. I have to walk and take in the scenery, even if it sucker punches me out of nowhere occasionally.
I didn't cry at work. I almost did countless times. But I didn't forget everything, so I could focus on my job instead of memories. I could blink back those tears and answer questions, accept hugs, and keep working. But when I got home, the floodgates opened. Because I wanted so much to call Mom and tell her about my day. To tell her about the lovely card that was waiting on me with a sweet gift from my coworkers. To tell her I didn't make a fool out of myself on my first day back. That even though I had only worked there for two months before I had to take two months off, I wasn't useless. And it's not that I can't tell other people these things. I can, I know I can. So many have offered to be my on the way home phone call. And while I appreciate it more than I can put into words, I want my mom. I want the woman who could tear me down off of my high horse with three words, then build me back up into a better version not 10 minutes later. I want the woman who knows all of my ugliness as well as all of my shiny. I want the woman who tolerated more of my shenanigans than anyone has a right to endure. Because there is no way to replace her. She was a pain in my ass as often as she was the light of my day. And I miss her.
I called my husband on my way home today. And we talked about normal everyday stuff. I didn't cry, although towards the end of the call I'm pretty sure the tears that had been dammed all day had enough, and started to shimmer in my peripheral vision. I talked to him until he got to work, until I was parked in front of our house. And I brought all of my stuff inside. Then I lost it. I changed my clothes while crying, unpacked my work bag while crying, put laundry together while crying and then sat down and put words to the feelings. Things I can't say out loud, but can type with ease.
This is when the grief starts for real. When you're back at home. Back to routine. And everything has changed. Nothing has changed.
Comments