I can see the thestrals…

by whatiwastryingtosaywas

I dreamt about you again last night. It was only the second dream I’ve had about you since you died – a fact that I find both unfair and a relief at the same time. In this dream, I was performing CPR again. I could feel your heart in your chest cavity as I pressed down on your chest plate the way I was taught. It was hard. Siezed up. A hard little ball of an organ and I felt like it was impossible to make it beat. I could see your chest lift, the way it did when I was trying to save you last year. I could hear the gurgle of the milk as it made its way from your stomach up your throat from all the compressing. I could see your eyes roll back, the way they did back then when we lifted your arms above your head to try and get you to take a breath.

Only in this dream. It worked. You choked a bit and then started breathing again. You looked at me, like into me, and breathed for a while and that was all. I woke up. You were still gone.

I don’t know what this means. What your message was. I just know you were still gone when I woke up.

This grief thing is a nightmare. I hate it. I hate crying all the time. I hate putting all of this onto your father because I am not built to share with all and sundry. I can’t even put this onto your gran anymore.

Mother’s Day is looming. I’m not doing anything. I don’t care about anyone else. I’m sick of the adverts. I’m not doing anything except probably feeling sorry for myself and bitter about all the people who are moms on the day.

And then soon thereafter will be the 17th. I don’t know what I’m going to do on this day. I know a few of the people who met you and some who didn’t are going to be there for us and we’re going to do something special for you but it’s not something I’m looking forward to at all. In fact, since last week or the week before, I’ve started reverting to who I was almost a year ago. A teary mess who feels teary and depressed every other minute.

But the dream made me do some reading this morning and I found this article, which tells how loved ones visit the people they left behind. If this story is true, you are visiting me more than I know. The dreams might be harder for you to break into. I sleep so heavily. But you’ve left feathers for your grandmother, I’ve had visits from our next door neighbour’s cat at very opportune times, butterflies always stop by me when we visit your tree, even birds have taken time to stop and fly in front of me when I think of you on our porch and this story explains the ringing in my ears that has become a frequent visitor of late.

You’re also there in songs. Music was always our thing. And we used to dance to 80s tracks and listen to music most of the days you were home and healthy and your dad and I always cooked with you in your bouncer on the counter playing music and dancing silly to keep you amused.

But the song that played most in my mind for you has been since your death and was “Pompeii” by Bastille. I always felt like the words explained you and my life after you died. The walls tumbling down in the city that we loved being your heart giving up and the grey cloud rolling over the hills bringing darkness from above representing the dark, grey world I live in now. It played on Saturday as I left your plot at the memorial site where we have buried your ashes under a lemon tree. I knew it was you because the next song was “Glory of Love” which I related to our fight against CHD in your name and then “Never Ending Story” which is the song I will always relate to your Uncle Kyle.

I knew it was you. And you were trying to bring me peace. To let me know you were there.

I want you to know I’m so grateful for these visits. You must know how urgently I need to feel you or know that you’re okay. You must know it.

And I’m grateful for the dream. I didn’t want to leave it. If I could choose to be comatose, living in a dream with you forever, I’d take it.

I miss you so much. There aren’t enough words to express this authentically. I have never missed anything this much. It’s desperate. And trying. And volatile. And it’s killing my soul.

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