‘I can’t imagine your pain…’

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…well no, probably not.  At least not something most people should try to imagine under most circumstances.

But sometimes I wish that other people did know how it feels.  …and how that feeling is ongoing.

A few months doesn’t make it go away.  It will never go away.  If I re-read the posts I wrote that document the worst day of my life, I am instantaneously plunged back into  absolute horror.

The feeling doesn’t go away.

Because this is worse than the worst horror movie you’ve ever seen.

Worse than your worst nightmare.

I recall having a nightmare that Greg died about a month before he did actually die and I awoke with the exact same feeling that gripped me when I arrived home from work that fateful day… except after the nightmare I also had the instant relief of seeing his sleeping face on his pillow right next to me.

So reality is definitely worse than the nightmare….

But the pain?  Well it’s a bit like this:

You want to vomit, but can’t.  You just feel nauseous. All. The. Time.

You want to run away.  Far far away.  But you are dizzy and tired and your legs don’t work properly.

You can’t eat or drink.  Food is not interesting or necessary.

and you are very, very scared.  Fear radiates off you and pushes you to a fight or flight response.

Even if you aren’t screaming out loud, you are screaming in your head “no no NO NO NO NO NONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONONO”.

You search the faces of the people near you, waiting for them to say “Gotcha” or ‘April Fool” as some kind of very bad joke.

You want to call him and tell him to come and be with you because something very bad has happened and you need him to lean on.

Your mind goes to mundane things.  Stupid things that don’t matter.  I said “but he was supposed to fix the washing machine when he got home”.

You cry.  You cry loud.  You cry a lot. Your eyes sting and your face aches from the perpetual grimace.

You are spacey.  detached.  The world gets a bit shimmery and you think everything is some kind of illusion.  This can’t be real… I was literally just talking to him.

You can’t hear properly.  You don’t care that you can’t hear properly.  Who cares about mundane things like hearing when Oh My Fucking God my HUSBAND is DEAD.

Why am I still standing?  I can’t believe I am hearing this horror and my heart hasn’t simply stopped beating in shock.  Actually my heart feels like my chest has been ripped open and my blood is pooling on the floor.  and yet I am standing.  Why?

Why are people talking to me like they think I can understand them?  They are talking some other language.

Why can’t anyone see that I am dying?

…and at 8 months down the track it’s more like this:

Why do you look at me like I should know what you are talking about?
I forget everything.
I can’t keep a thought in my head because it’s pushed aside by the screaming “he’s dead! DEAD!!”.
Can’t you see that half of me is gone and you expect me to remember what you are saying?

I am like a swan with signets – I look like I am coping and looking after my babies, but the furious paddling below the surface is all that’s keeping us afloat.


But I need to keep moving. keep breathing in and out.  keep putting one foot in front of the other. keep busy. keep living live day by day (hour by hour, minute by minute).

I have two choices: to keep plodding onwards or to give up and just stop living.  The second option isn’t really an option, so I’m left with plodding on.

Because if I stop, I’ll think about THAT DAY again and I will once more tumble into the mawing pit despair.

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13 thoughts on “‘I can’t imagine your pain…’

  1. I’m gettign closer to imagining your pain.

    You are very brave. I know it feels like you have no alternative but to carry on, but you are doing so with such dignity and strength.

    (And thank God your neighbours have finally sorted out the drain. Small victories!)

    Take care.


  2. You are plodding on very well indeed, I think, in the face of such horrifying and saddening tragedy. You describe it all so clearly and so viscerally that I can nearly imagine the face-aches, the nausea, the tiredness and the fear you feel. I’m so sorry, dear. So very sorry that you have to plod at all, but very proud of you indeed for plodding on so well – as you say, minute by minute, hour by hour and day by day. Hugs to you and your children. Keep plodding, lovey.

  3. Jayne says:

    Plodding on is all you can do (((hugs))

  4. twangy says:

    Am in awe – so well written. Keep on keeping on, Amanda. So sorry it has to be so.
    Cheering you on from afar..

  5. I understand. You KNOW I do.

    Mine is different, but the same at the same time.

    I know.

    And how I wish it was different.

    Love you sweetie.

  6. corymbia says:

    and it shits me to tears that we both know…….

  7. Rhu says:

    I thank you for writing this. And my understanding is only a glimmer of where you are. But it’s a glimmer I did not have before. I thank you, but how I wish you did not have this knowledge to share. x

  8. Chookie says:

    And I try to imagine, but my mind shies away from the horror of it. My heart goes out to you.

  9. Andrea says:

    Hi Corymbia– I’m Andrea from the Soaring Spirits Loss Foundation (www.sslf.org). We are interested in adding both of your blogs to the blogroll on the resource page of our website. Please email me at info@sslf.org to let me know the best way to contact you so we can discuss the possibility of adding your blogs. Thank you so much!

  10. Bush Babe says:

    As always, I stand helpless in the face of this. Wanting to help somehow but mute in the face of the roaring grief you feel. How I wish I could help soothe it somehow, without diminishing the image and magic moment of Your Greg.

    All I can do is offer That Picture – which is in the mail this week.


  11. Missy Boo says:

    Plodding on takes great strength, and I think of you and your strength often and with awe. Hugs to you xxx

  12. […] Corymbia’s Mutterings She’s muttering under her breath …. again Skip to content HomeAbout ← ‘I can’t imagine your pain…’ […]

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