Wangeness (weird strangeness) of Time

Recognizing that before Ellie passed, I projected myself into the future, anticipating my life without her.  Now, I attempt to push myself back to the past, a time when she was still with me.  Eckhart (author of The Power of NOW) would be so disappointed in me and my avoidance of the present.

As I face my days without Ellie, I am struck with this sudden and huge freedom of time.  And it is totally wange (weird strange) not having her to continually care for.  Especially at the end, I now recognize what a huge amount of time was involved in her care.  It did not seem so at the time, as we were just doing it, not thinking about it.  Thom too has noticed how at night he feels somewhat at a loss to what to do with himself.  (Of course I would trade all of this free time for 5 more minutes with my sunny honey bunny.)  It is not as if my days drag either, I get to the end of them and wonder where it went.  It is Monday then suddenly Thursday with me barely knowing what happened in between.  All of it a somewhat foggy blur.

All urgency is gone.  (Which may be why my laundry keeps becoming mountainous.  Or maybe its because my laundress is on another continent. Not complaining just observing.) We used to have not one but two monitors in Ellie's room.  Constantly keeping track of her condition--did we need to call a doctor, give a medication, go to the hospital?  Now everything feels as if it can be postponed if necessary.  Nothing has the same weight behind it. Everything feels so much slower.  At times, I feel as if I am standing in the middle of a freeway, all the cars racing past.  Surprisingly, I feel completely comfortable in this slower pace.  I guess, in a way, becoming friendlier with the silence.

I had dinner a couple of weeks ago with Ellie's award-winning 3rd grade teachers.  They mentioned something about the beginning of the school year.  I had this moment of panic, realizing autumn was a time when Ellie was alive.  I had this desperate feeling of wanting to be back then.  Trying to discover how to get two kids on the morning bus rather than trying to recover from this loss.  A time when I did not know that Ellie would be gone so soon.  A time filled with hope that she would actually get better.

For awhile, everything was measured by before Ellie's diagnosis and afterwards.  It feels as if that same type of life altering shift is happening now--before Ellie passed and after.  This is the new milestone.

My brilliant scientist friend, Jennifer, told me about a character in a book whose 11-year-old daughter drowned.  She survived this loss by every single day finding something to do to make herself smile in honor of her daughter.  Every day since Jennifer told me that, I have searched for the smiliest thing that happened that day to dedicate to Ellie.  Seems like a brilliant use of my time, and maybe a way to force me into the present.