Between Worlds

This is a feeling of the inability to be in two places, two worlds at once. You are held to the ground by the emotional ties and connections with your living family, where you are loved and supported, anchored in life to the earth.

All the while, you are looking to the skies, the stars, the galaxies and needing to be able to be there, too, with the child who is elsewhere; in another realm, on a new adventure, beyond the veil.

Whatever your understanding of dying and death and all that comes after, the fact remains that the grieving process is truly profound and you are never far from that feeling of connection or disconnection, being present or lost, held or abandoned.

It can be relentless, an abundance of homesickness for something you no longer have physically and this feeling of constant longing, that sits in the background most days and then suddenly appears, pulling at your gut in a moment of intense sadness.

Nothing will ever be the same again.

It’s a loss that in all honesty, can never be put into words, because grief is so unique to each and every one of us and something I might feel about one aspect myself on any given day, may not resonate with you and you could feel it in a completely different way.

It’s like an underlying fear of life and living without your child within yours. The uncertainty and fragility of living becomes a ferocious, scary creature some days deep within your heart and mind. You find yourself pondering on your own mortality and watching your living children, wanting to protect them all the time, from everything; which is impossible, of course.

All the dreams I had for all five of us; travelling, escaping, living abroad like I recently talked about on another blog post, has today become pointless in my heartbreak. The idea of trying to live happily and experience life, a new life, a different life, without Ben, seems unthinkable. Tomorrow, I may find my bravery again, but today, it’s left me.

I am torn between all he’d hope we’d do without him and all I just don’t want to. I try every day to live life. Really live; be present. Of course, it is difficult in a pandemic, but walking is joyous at times, surrounding myself in the quiet and gentle shushing of the trees and my mind wanders to Benny and where he is, what he’s doing, how he feels, worrying about whether I did or didn’t do enough for him, the desperate worry about whether he just wants to communicate and can’t somewhere; and trying to find a way to stay in contact, beyond dying and death. I try to stay present and connected with my girls, ensuring they know I am there for them on every level, no matter what. I watch them and marvel at the joy they find in the every day; the connections they continue to make with friends, despite everything they’ve been through in their short lives. I love my children so much, all three of them, no matter what.

I know on some days, Ben would hate to miss out and I feel guilty for living sometimes, watching his sisters grow up, knowing what a privilege it is and how he will never reach any of those milestones. My youngest is going to be twelve this year and I know I will be holding my breath and watching her surpass his age, her older brother, somehow becoming the youngest. Yet, in some ways, having gone ahead of all of us, perhaps he is the oldest with the most wisdom of life and experience of all that we have yet to experience ourselves.

It’s confusing, this grief. Some days I feel and say it’s all the love you have for a person, that you can no longer bestow upon them. On other days, I don’t like grief at all. It’s heartbreaking, something to fear, to wallow in, to disappear within and be swallowed up by.

I wish cancer hadn’t happened to us. I wish it hadn’t taken the life of my beautiful, innocent, fun-loving boy. He was so funny, full of life, with a whole set of plans and wishes and dreams. He so wanted to live.

I am in a permanent, quiet sense of complete and utter disbelief. I feel most days like I’m living within a dream and I will wake up one day and be grateful to find him perfectly ok, bundling around with the girls, unaware of the life that has gone before him.

Instead, no amount of time travel, regret, wishing, praying, hoping and daydreaming will ever change the outcome of what has unfolded in the last year and a half.

I’ve heard the lines ‘he’s in a better place, now …’ and ‘it’s God’s Will.’ I’ve heard that ‘at least I have two other children.’ I’ve also heard that when other parents had checked their children, they ‘thought they might be dead,’ as their temperature had fallen so low.

I have politely taken a breath, thought of my son and my girls on the day that he died, knowing all that he went through and I breathe into a more meditative state, before smiling politely and walking away.

I have faith; in light source energy, in the spiritual connection, the universe and love. I am not religious and as for still having two other children, yes, I am truly blessed, but I have lost a child. I have watched my child slip away and die in front of me. I have seen my two living children go through losing a sibling overnight in the end. No amount of me trying to express any reaction to those sorts of comments, will ever help someone who hasn’t been on this path, understand in any way. It’s just impossible.

Some days, I could scream at people for the comments they say, but it would serve no purpose, so I send out love and light and wish I didn’t have to always be the one worrying about upsetting someone else when it comes to my own grief.

Do you know what it feels like to live between worlds?

I know some of you reading this will know only too well this experience, but for those of you who don’t know, I dearly hope you never do.