The days are long, but the years are short

I stepped back and took stock of everything. It’s nearly June and the dread of the month is probably far worse than the actuality of it. I remember not writing about a lot of things, for fear of upsetting Nan and now, I look back and wish I had a record of each day as it passed, of the emails sent and received, of doctors visits and prognosis and finally, inevitably, the downhill slide to death and grief.

I wish I had every word, every memory, saved for posterity, rather than relying on the memories of a stressed and sleep deprived mind.

Someone said to me once, about life with children: The days are long, but the years are short. That fact slapped me in the face as I realised that it’s been nearly two years.

I’m not sure where that time went, except it’s gone now and wishing it back again isn’t going to change a thing. Would that it could.

Two years ago my son was small and placid, content to lie on the floor by himself. He was smiley and he attended every appointment with us, while I wondered how much time she had left and whether she would see my children grow up.

Life is hard. When you’re the one having to move through life after death, when it feels like the world should just stop and allow you time to process your grief and learn to live again, that’s hard.

***

Stop. Move around and remember to breathe. In and out, out and in. Don’t think, don’t remember, just get through the day.

Make it through until bedtime, then go to bed. Sleep, dream and wake, to do it all again, over and over.

If you haven’t torn your hair out by now, what’s stopping you?

We get caught up in the drudgery of the days and fail to see the years passing by, faster and faster. Like a river, speeding up as you head towards the waterfall (a hurtling death), you can’t seem to slow it down.

One day, you’ll turn around and look at the river of years behind you.

***

The years are short, but the days are long and I need to just keep moving.

Everything will be okay.