A LIVING DEATH.
Fifty-Six years ago, on January 15, I gave birth to Rosemond, my second daughter. Fifteen months later, the local Newspaper featured a photo of the three of us—Rosemond, Myra, and me--- in a Mother's Day Photo.
So many Mother's Days have passed since the three of us were together. So many-- I've lost count--and I no longer visit the mailbox-- expecting a card. It’s interesting how adjusting to loss is much-like lifting weights. At first, the weight of my grief could only be measured in small increments---like minutes--then hours--and soon--- weeks. Now, I'm so strong I can “lift tall buildings” and--- my endurance is measured by-- years.
Each morning I wake up stronger than the day before because-- I survived another night. Nights are my most challenging time. Alone and in the dark--my memories gather to taunt me with thoughts of happy times; of hopeful yesterdays. I fight to stop thinking. I use my strength to restrain my emotions. Sleep is my salvation.
Learning to survive abandonment by those you gave life and forever-love----is a living death. True-- with enough time-- acceptance becomes a pattern-- a way of life—but my great-big-loving-heart never stops asking "WHY."