I went to the gym today, which was some sort of a victory. I haven’t been in a few weeks. Grief sucks energy, yo.
Now I’m doing laundry, and I’m feeling accomplished, because it’s a thing I can say I did today. And I made a real dinner the other night, so feel free to congratulate me.
Jack is trying new foods at his new home. He is learning to sign much more than he did with us. These steps forward are giving me comfort. He’s stretching and growing. He is adjusting to his new life. Jeff and I are going to visit him in a few days. We wanted to give him at least two weeks to settle in before we came to see him. Even still, it may be confusing for him when we leave and don’t take him with us, and it might feel like we’ve smashed my bruised heart between a couple of cinder blocks. Hopefully not. We’ll see.
Grief isn’t exciting to write about, but then again, neither were the behavior problems of the last five + years.
I’ve noticed that while my family is carrying on basically normally, I am sadder, quieter, wearier. I suppose it’s because I am the mom, and I carried Jack in my womb, my arms, my car’s backseat, my mind & heart for so long. I did so much for him—more than my other boys needed from me. You can’t relocate your nonverbal thirteen-year-old and relinquish your role as caregiver without feeling the pangs. It is not the same.
Nor will it be. That is both good and sad.