The bright and cheery sun failed to warm my heart this morning, as I woke up to one of those mornings when grief rules, and cannot be shifted. One of those days when I feel stuck in a bleak land, where the future looks all wrong and scary, and hurt sticks to me like a stubborn shadow.
As often happens, I ended up on the phone to my mum and dad, two deeply well-meaning people, who have pretty much always done whatever they thought was right to help my siblings and me, and have been the patient recipients of my incoherent middle-of-the night anguish, ranting and despair for the last eight months. They do not live near me, but do their utmost to be near enough, for the children and for me.
I can often read on their faces the pain of witnessing their own child’s suffering, the frustration of feeling powerless, the temptation to take over, because they surely know better, have a clearer vision, and just want to protect me. It does not matter how old our children are, we all grapple with the same limits to our power.
For all their flaws, I am blessed to have such loving parents, and fellow blogger Struggling Dad‘s immeasurable loss brought this into even sharper focus today.
This post is for Struggling Dad, who will always be his daddy’s boy
Lloyd Cole – Lost week-end: