You may feel:
nausea, headaches, sweating, shortness of breath, weakness, exhaustion, insomnia.
Me: yes to all of the above.
The Grief Digest makes the following suggestions as a solution:
Take a bubble bath. No
Go for a walk. No
Do a jigsaw puzzle. No
Stroll through the mall. No.
Buy yourself an ice cream cone. No
Sit beside water. No.
Buy new socks. No.
Roast marshmallows. (WTF?) No
Thanks, Digest. Digest THIS. (insert middle finger image high in the air)
Listen. I know I’m not unique. I’m not the first woman in the history of TIME to lose their son. Their child. People have lost children to more horrible circumstances than Ashton fell to, though his suffering was horrific. People have lost children and do not know where their bodies are. I have his body (minus a teaspoon) here with me. I am, however, the first woman in the history of all time who lost her son named Ashton Tyler Carley Trent 27 days ago. A five-year-old who kicked cancer’s ass but was not tall enough to go on the GvHD ride.
That ride? It threw him off. Calling all scientists! Fix that ride!
People say he’s in my heart. If I hear one more fucking cliché I’m going to flip a car, light it on fire and then
I did not do his illness like your average mother. I wrote about it in all it’s ugliness. realness. bloodiness. absurdity. UNFAIRNESS <that’s another cliché I want to vomit on.
Also, “I’m sorry for your loss.” While I know that’s the standard thing to say and my line is, “Thank you.”
Don’t say it anymore. It’s empty. I know you are sorry. I know you don’t know what to say. Neither do I. Fuck.
“You’ll be with him again.” How do YOU know? You have a special angle with the Universe and you know how it all turns out? Yeah. Didn’t think so. Don’t say things you can’t back up.
Oh, I know, I know. If she only had Faith.
I know there were thousands of prayers for Ashton. Not a single one was answered. Put that in your church pipe and smoke it.