Fog, fog and more fog. During the first week I was medicated, at my request, as I remember wailing ‘I won’t survive this’ over and over again. I have no idea what medication I was on (but it was good stuff) and it enabled me to function and go through the motions. I existed.
The first month was primarily organising the military funeral. Looking back I have no idea how I managed to do that. But something kicked in and I spend hours on it. Listening to hymns, reading prayers and psalm, day after day, night after night, it had to be perfect.
Now probably if a physiatrist analysed me they would probably say I was trying to regain some kind of control.
When you lose a child you are overcome with so many emotions at at once, and the sensation is almost indescribable. You forget to breathe, you feel like you are in a nightmare and you want to wake up, you can’t believe it, you can’t comprehend that you will never see, speak or hear your child again. Your confidence is lost and you now know you are not in control of anything and your life can be changed in a heartbeat. The loss hits so hard and it continues in waves, constant waves, sometimes so hard it knocks you off your feet, physically and you go to ground. The crying is never ending, the heart wrenching sobbing is a raw guttural longing for your child. And this is the journey….