Screaming at the sun

I woke this morning to several more inches of snow. I watched it fall as I hovered in the doorway, the dog chasing it around the yard. My city has seen over three feet of accumulation in under a week with more on the way. It makes life more difficult, but it wasn’t difficult yet first thing this morning. It covered everything, pushed away the peripheral realities of life. Not a problem yet, just me and this sparkling, crystalline oblivion.

I am grieving right now. The isolation that accompanies snow storms is a good fit these days. I drink entire pots of coffee and fresh juices and type furiously while listening to the Beatles. There is no one to ask about this pain. It is just as well, because I haven’t felt like talking about it.

I funnel this frenetic energy into work, into writing posts, into cutting up fruits and vegetables to juice. I don’t want to sleep because I feel like I should be doing something. I can’t sit still because I am so uncomfortable in this body and if I stop moving, it feels like this sorrow will be upon me.

I grieve all big decisions, whether or not I realize it at the time. This swell of emotion has been building for some time, all the small upsets snowballing around this weighty core. I realized last week that I can no longer feel the difference along the scale of emotional pain. There are no little things right now. Every pain hurts exactly the same.

I will have the surgery and recuperate. I will feel better when I am healed. I will be taken care of. I will be fine. I will do all the things I have to. Everything will get done. I will be fine. I will be fine.

I don’t get upset when I see a blizzard is coming. The sheer enormity makes it pointless. It’s like screaming at the sun. There’s no point.

It’s the same with this pain. I know there’s no point in trying to change it. But sometimes I scream at the sun anyway.

4 Responses

  1. Yvonne February 3, 2015 / 10:32 am

    My mom had to have the lower part of her esophagus removed 2 years ago. It had needed to be taken out long before that and the result was a life threatening situation. She came so very close to passing and it was a terrible time for us both. The surgery was eventually successful and she slowly healed.
    Today she cannot have anything at all by mouth. The sad irony of this is that food brought her such comfort and joy for all her life. However she still mourns it quietly.
    I know about mast cell activation and understand that it might have gotten her into this mess. I see that her food choices may have caused over 30 years of heartburn burning burning burning. Over the years she also aspirated at night and probably damaged her lungs. She has systemic scleroderma and a double lung transplant.
    We both have so much to be thankful for. She has little pain today and is content.
    I know that my body is my most precious gift and I feed it not for my own pleasure but as if it was a working machine needing high quality fuels and not too strenuous work. I think I have learned a lot from my Mom. Including how to deal with adversity and hope for the best
    Hope is everything. Not hoping for crazy unattainable things but little things. And then work toward them
    The body has an amazing power to heal when the bad things are taken away. Believe in this and keep hoping. Hugs

  2. Lucy February 3, 2015 / 12:04 pm

    You will be fine! I had the best anesthesiologist for my recent foot surgery and that is why mine really was fine. Make sure that is in place. I will be praying for you. Come to Colorado, no snow and the crocus are blooming prematurely. Take care Lisa, we need you.

    • Lisa Klimas February 3, 2015 / 2:04 pm

      This is the same team who did my previous surgery, and I frequently have procedures/tests that require anesthesia at this hospital. I’m not really worried about the medical aspect of this in a logical way. It’s just a weird sort of loss.

  3. Robin February 3, 2015 / 11:57 pm

    Lisa, your grief resonates.

    In my mind, within any loss is the feeling of being alone, the feeling of being lost, becoming unattached to something we were once attached to and the experience of becoming disconnected. We are launched into some gap of absence and presence and perhaps long for a stability where better feelings can last. We become furious because we know so deeply that prior suffering buys no protection against future pain.

    When I was young, if I got lost while outside exploring, I was encouraged to stay put, I was encouraged to make myself as comfortable as I could and listen, I was encouraged to call out and disturb the peace. I hope you’ll keep: calling out, keep writing, acknowledging your loss and expressing, that at times, nothing looks or feels right or that something might feel beyond reach.

    I am so sorry for your loss(es) and so thankful for all you’ve shared in this blog.

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