Mourning can be a very sneaky monster.
It's been three years since the fire that put my dad in the hospital, robbed us of our family home, and took the life of my beloved Scout. [If you don't have any idea what I'm talking about, you can read about it here.]
I never really considered mourning the loss of a home. Certainly I had thought about mourning the loss of a pet, but I could have never imagined the depths of grief I would experience after the losing Scout and our Honeysuckle home. It's been three years, and though the wounds aren't raw anymore they are very much a part of me, wounds I feel may forever scar my heart. Three years later, this is what mourning looks like.
I still have dreams set at the Honeysuckle house. This phenomenon started happening about 10 months after the fire, and initially occurred at an alarming rate of five to seven times a week. Usually they have nothing to do with the house or the fire, it's just the setting.
I think of Scout often. Sometimes her name tries to come out when I call for Lucy or Latch (most especially that recent blonde addition). And though time has passed and the hole left in my heart has gotten smaller, I still miss her dearly.
The memory of dad on the ventilator is something that hasn't gotten much more bearable with time. It is a picture that still causes me to reach to God for support. Dad is fine. He's more than fine, actually. He's really great. There's just something about that first moment when I saw him hooked up to the machines fighting for his life, my mom at my side, my siblings not yet able to be there, feeling so very small and helpless...three years later that memory can break my heart all over again.
The conversation with GerRee. I remember looking at my feet, walking down the hallway, making my way outside, and trying to figure out how I was going to have that conversation with my sister. The one where I told her Dad was in the Parkland ICU Burn Unit and our family home had burned. The one where I tried not to freak her out and give her as many details as I could but I couldn't make my mind stop racing. The one where I would break my sister's heart. I remember getting to a place where I was sort of lost trying to relay information and just stopped. I didn't know what to say next. With very slow and deliberate speech, GerRee said "I need you to tell me the condition of our father." My feelings surrounding that conversation still make me squeeze my sister a little tighter every time I see her, and wish I could snuggle up to her and hold her hand more often. My sister. My heart.
Shortly after the fire, we also lost Bonnie. Somehow this gets thrown into the the big ol' mess of loss surrounding the fire. I guess because it sort of became a year of loss, the way things seemed to drag out. And that sweet, sweet family dog was very dear to all of us, most especially my dad. Bonnie's passing marked another sorrow in a year of so many ups and downs.
Writing about so much of this for the first time makes me realize I probably should have started a long time ago. I suppose it's been pretty cathartic to finally put some "pen to paper". But I certainly don't want to leave you with the impression that I'm some walking ball of grief 24/7. Like I said, mourning can be a sneaky monster, sometimes springing from nowhere. Sometimes springing from what would otherwise be pleasant memories, as was the case today. It's been three years, and even though there is still a fair amount of heartache, there is much more happiness. Our family has so much to be thankful for, and I am blessed to belong to a family that recognizes and appreciates that fact.
To conclude this kind of a downer post [so sorry], I will leave you with really cute photos I have close by. That'll make up for it, right?!
