Below are some of the journal entries that I sent to my psychiatrist about a month ago.  I know I promised that this blog would be about 2017, not 2016, but I really felt like I needed to share them with you all and her mom said it would be ok.  That maybe talking about it would help us all heal.  My hope is that by reading these emails, Haley’s story will make more sense to you, once I can find the strength to finally finish it.

Written Thursday, December 15, 2016

She will die tonight. Her angel mother and her heartbroken fiancé are with her in her hospital room in San Francisco.  There are tubes and tape and machines beeping everywhere.  Everything in the room is sterile white, even her skin.  I picture her laying there, with her beautiful, flowing strawberry blonde hair, angel kissed cheeks, and emerald green toes.  She looks more like a mermaid in this moment than ever before.  She is at peace.  Her big brothers are in the air, rushing to get there before her life is over.  Always there by her side, even in death.  I’m sure that her father is in Heaven watching over them all, thanking God that he went first.  Knowing that he could not have survived in this world without her.  How do I look my boys in the eyes and give them news that will change their lives forever? They were their aunties world.  Dylan took the bus home to her almost every day.  She and Mel are only 6 years apart in age, so they are more brother and sister, than auntie and nephew.  I guess in that way, we are both losing our sister tonight.  My little, his big.  I’ve never dealt with something like this.  Well, something so close to home.  This feels like too big a test for where I’m at.  In this moment, I do not want to be mindful.  In this moment I want to curl up in a ball and check back out of life.

Tonight my little sister, Haley, will die.  How do you die at 25?
***

Written Sunday, December, 18, 2016

She is gone.  No more wondering.  No more waiting.  She is gone.  My guard is back up.  I don’t think I can feel this one.  Again, I do not want to be mindful of this moment.  This one could break me.

I try to drink it away… I get sick and cry.  I try to sleep it away… I wake up in the middle of the night sweating and gasping for breath. “IT” is death.  In these moments, I feel lost and broken. The devil that is anxiety is back and taking over. My heart starts to race… my legs and feet start to cramp… the tears start to fall and I start to spin. This hurts too much.  I panic.
This time I reach for the pill bottle to medicate the emotions away and as advertised, within minutes, I feel nothing.  Nothing.  The hurt is gone.  The tears are gone.  The panic is gone.  Everything is gone, including her.  She is still gone and I should feel sad, but instead I feel nothing.  I start to feel guilty and confused and exhausted.  I should feel sad.  “IT” is sad.  I AM SAD.  I will wait for the medication to wear off and try to process the excruciating emotions again.  I know from my work, that mindfulness is not always about happiness.  Mindfulness is about feeling it all in that moment…  the good and the bad.  My little sister died.  My sissy Haley died and that is worth feeling heartbroken and hurting for.

 

 

 

One thought on “Even beautiful things die.

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s