Letters to Georgie, Writing
Comments 7

Grief is…

a whirlpool, we were told in counselling last week. It sucks you in, when you least expect it and it spits you out, exhausted and drained.

a maze, out of which you never quite manage to emerge, I read. You pass from one chamber to another, sometimes chased, just like in the Maze Runner, not by a griever but by Grief. Sometimes you crawl through it, from one chamber to another and back again where you started: shock, anger, acceptance, pain, shock, anger…

anger plus despair plus pain plus loneliness. All at once, on any given day.

a loud banging-like noise in your head that deafens you to any other noises of this world. All you feel like doing is shout back. But at whom? And to what effect?

never knowing how to play your emotions. Play them down and they come flooding over, like a tsunami, when you least expect it. Play them up and people drain away from you, like water off the surface of dry, parched up land. Grieving emotions are inconvenient and raw and tiring for the onlookers.

a living nightmare. The only way I know that the past year hasn’t been a bad, bad joke of a dream is the pain I feel every time I wake up. The reliving on autopilot, any time of the day and of the night, of overwhelming feelings of fear and despair and emotional destitution and disillusionment .

re-shifting of belief paradigms. I used to believe everything happens for a reason. I used to believe God is good to the little ones and merciful and just. I can no longer collate beliefs based on church preaching and passing of information alone. I actually walked out of church on Sunday as church at the moment as it stands makes no sense to me. Preachings on God as a healer are void, completely void of truth to me. I am now the result of my life experiences.

the blunt refusal to be grateful for what I have lost in the light of a better future. I have been tearing into shreds my daily calendar of quotations when the word “thankful” featured on the page. I refuse to be. And don’t you dare preaching at me and saying I should be grateful for what I am left with. Because I see no reason why your kids can still enjoy THIS life and THE NEXT and mine had to miss out on this one completely. As grand as the celebrations will be in Heaven for Jesus’ birthday, MY baby could have been spared around 70 years on this earth to enjoy celebrations with us here as well.

darkness, like a tunnel through which you walk alone, never quite knowing when or if you will encounter light again. Sometimes you see a glimpse of light, like this morning when a friend pulled me aside, wiped my tears and took me home and made me coffee. Some other times, you see a glimmer of light in the horizon, when you think of the day your body will stop working and your spirit will be released to meet the spirit of the little one you have missed so very much all along.

is not intentional. I wish I could make myself forget the pain. Forget the trauma of seeing my baby in pain for months. Be able to ignore the facts and my gut feeling that tells me that he must have been suffering from when he was in the womb. Be able to be the wife I am expected to be (and reminded I am not), the mother I am supposed to be (and fail miserably at being every time I lose patience with Emma) and celebrate in the joy of trusting the Lord. But it is not a matter of choice. Pain is not a choice. I would have never chosen this path for my baby, for my marriage, for my surviving child.

is completely oblivious of seasons and celebrations. My grief couldn’t care less about Christmas being less than a month away. It does not diminish in intensity. Actually, it has magnified in rawness and strident loudness as the days have clocked in, closer and closer to the “happiest day of the year.”

being beaten at life. Because no matter what you do, no matter how many boxes you tick, no matter how many posts you write, presents you buy and kindness acts you perform, at the end of the day all is left in your heart is…hollowness.

I leave you with the image of my two children. This picture was taken two days before the nightmare began. Before our family was decimated. The day when we were still a normal family with two bright, beautiful and full of potential children. I love it and I hate it, in the same time. I love the normality in it and I hate it for the dreaded fear and anticipation that it brings with it. Just like my every memory that has my sweet baby boy in it, sweet and sour, all at the same time.

105I miss you sweet face.

I miss what you should have been to us, a son, a brother, joy, completion, innocence, motivation to fight and live on.

I know you are having a good time there and you are probably in awe of all the big lights and decorations coming up for the biggest celebration of the year.

I know you are loving every colour, every glimmer, every sparkle. You love roaming about, you love seeing everybody and everything, you love the singing and the joy permeating the air, the atmosphere, your very pores.

I just miss having you here, in this world full of tears and imperfect people and pain. I miss the chance to give you of the little I have, my love and my care and my attention.

Wait for me at the gate, will you? Introduce me to the realm of wonders but most importantly, save me a spot close to you. As I am determined to spend eternity so very close, since death denied us your presence here.

Love you, to the heavens and never back again.


  1. Elizabeth says

    I regularly read your updates, my heart breaking for you and your family. I admire your honesty and integrity. I lost my much loved dad this year and continue to struggle with my grief and faith. Christmas approaching is such a difficult time. Praying you and your family find the strength to survive and have fond memories of your adorable son and make new ones with your darling daughter. Sending much love and hugs xx

  2. I read this to understand a little better, because I am a little better able to understand thanks to your candor.

    But that picture. The words following that picture. That last line especially? I am weeping. I am so freakin’ sorry.

  3. I relate to so much of this. I just lost my close Aunt Annie in August. I can’t imagine the pain of losing a child. Thank you for writing so rawly what I very often feel. I will pray you may find some peace. Xoxo Ashley

  4. Oh Oana, I wish I could give you a hug. I wish I could make it all better for you. I wish you had been able to spend so much more time with your little boy. I have so many wishes, and I know that’s all they’ll be.
    Life is so terribly cruel, and Christmas so terribly hard. It reminds us all of what we have lost, and is absolutely exhausting. We’ve done such a poor job so far, but I keep looking into the eyes of my little ones and I know I have to make it great for them. They won’t remember every minute we cried, they’ll remember the moments we don’t. I’m writing them all down so that when I believe I can’t be happy again, I can prove to myself that I can. When grief starts to win, I can kick it back a bit and stay ahead. I hope you can find a way to stay ahead, and when the whirlpool gets too much, you can see through it, at least for a second xxx

  5. I can relate so much to this. I recently lost my aunt in August. Thank you for posting something so raw and truthful about grief. I can’t imagine losing a child.. It’s hard enough an adult. Praying you find some peace.. Xoxo Ashley

  6. Damaris says

    I’ve learned so much from you and your raw beauty, Oana. I’m thinking of you this Christmas.

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