Grief, Tantrums, and Love

Yesterday I was driving home from work and I wanted to call my mom.  I wanted to chat.  I wanted to check in.  I wanted to update her on Grayson. 

For the past few weeks I stifled those little urges to call her, I tucked them in the back of my mind hoping they would go away.

Well yesterday morning I could stifle no more.  I sobbed the whole way home.  For one reason or another, that car ride is when my grief hit me the hardest.  That car ride is when I started to breathe in the reality that my mom is truly gone.  She will never get another update about my baby on this side of heaven.  She will not meet my future children.  She can give me no more advice.  This shit is permanent.  She is not on vacation, and she is not coming back.  

I felt sucker-punched in the gut.  I wanted to vomit and kick and scream on top of my sobbing.  I wanted to throw a tantrum so big that some massive guy would have to hold me down.  I felt consumed by pain and grief so intense I wanted to crash my car into a tree, because surely the impact would snap me out of it and I would hurt less.  

Someone please call that big burly guy, because Jaci has gone stark raving mad.

Obviously I did not do any of those things white driving, but the further away I get from the last awful week of my mom's life, the harder this feels and the deeper this hurts.  After that last week, I wanted my mom to die.  I wanted her to be in paradise.  I wanted the pain to stop and the suffering to end.  But now, now that she is gone, I want her back.  

What a conundrum.  

The small sane part of my brain that is left, knows that I will be alright.  I know it will get easier in time.  I know that part of being human is dying, and the time will come when I will have to walk this painful road again.  

But it does me no good to logic away my pain. It does me no good to try and point out the people that have it worse than me, as if that would actually make me feel better.

A friend put a quote in one of the sympathy cards I received: "Grief is the cost of love."

So today I am admitting that it is all worth it.  The intensity and amount of love that existed between my mom and I, is worth the intensity and amount of grief and pain I feel now.  I wouldn't trade it in and today I won't stifle it.  I will trust that through feeling and expressing my anger, fear, and sadness, I will find healing and hope.  

I promise not to drive my car into a tree, but I still might rock that tantrum.

Today everything hurts, but I will continue to desperately cling to my hope, while being honest about my pain.