Dance

His clean laundry is still in the basket, waiting to be folded. The bed is left unmade. The indentation of his head is still in his pillow. His clothes still hang on the hook, shoes in the basket. Christmas gifts left unopened. It's been five months since he died. I am okay, I am not okay. When my mother-in-law asks why I haven't sent out Ryan's senior pictures yet, I freeze, pretend I did, and then quietly remember that those were last year's photos. I'm peppered with how, why, and when questions at the graduation lunch I was supposed to plan, not my son, and I start to cry. 

They don't understand. They have no idea how much I want to be who I used to be. Do all of the things I used to do. I want to go for 30-mile bike rides with my son. I want to go to the Y twice a week and lift weights. I want to plan a big graduation open house for my son. I want to make dinner each night and bake cookies every week. But right now, I have a fifty-pound brick on my chest and a horrible feeling that my arm was cut off. Now, my job is to figure out how to get the brick off my chest with one arm. 

Yesterday it was heavy. I walked into his room and noted the basket of laundry left unfolded. It didn't matter if it was ever folded because no one will wear those size 12 sweatpants again or use the homemade bibs to wipe the drool from his chin. So they stay dormant. Sometimes I can't go into his room at all, and then another day I'll spend a few hours in there preparing all the unneeded medical supplies for donation. Every item had its own bin, carefully labeled by me so the caregivers could find it when I wasn't home. As I empty those bins, I carefully peel the labels off each one (33 bins so far). I worked so hard to keep everything organized, run smoothly, and keep my boy alive. The stander was donated, gone is his bath chair and his massage table. All of the things that we needed to care for Dermot are being donated, on my time. One piece at a time. Every item represents weeks or months of advocating, ordering, and waiting. It only takes a few hours to give it all away.

But now what? I fill my days with naps, listening to Tyler, the Creator really loud, walking the dogs, volunteering at the horse barn, going to a new yoga studio I found, and traveling for various reasons. But mostly, I wonder what my purpose is now? I call it the reeducation of Sue Sullivan.

I'm reading a lot about what happens to the grieving brain
and body. It's a complete reset. My brain is telling me to do and expect one thing, and I keep telling it that my son is gone and I need new expectations. I think that's why I'm napping so much. 

This grief is an impossible dance of grace, anger, sadness, love, and joy. The hardest part is that everyone dances differently, and the people around me aren't sure how to join in. Should they sit and watch? Should they dance a different dance next to me? Should they show me a different dance? Should they stand next to me and be ready to catch me? Yes. The answer is yes. Yes to all of it. Whatever you do, don't miss out on the dance because I need to learn as many new moves as I can.

Five months in, I feel proud of my job as his mother.