Sense

I am restless today. Unfocused. It takes me more than two hours to get dressed and out the door. I can't find the right clothes, then I lose my socks and purse. I leave water running in the shower for 20 minutes and when I finally get in the truck, I can't remember where I am supposed to go.

I sit through several meetings, there in body but not in mind. I have trouble in groups. So many voices to focus on, expressions to read. So many happy, trivial people that I can no longer relate to. I make my best effort, which, I fear, is not effort enough. I used to be a very focused person. I could keep detailed "to do" lists in my head. I not only never never missed an appointment, I was never late. In fact, Colby frequently commented that I was "way too organized."

After the meetings, at home, I feel an urgent need to be active so I gather trimmers, saw and clippers and head to a hedge on the side of the yard that is overgrown with scrub trees, weeds and vines. I pull weeds with increasing frenzy, hack blindly at vines, and cut off bigger branches than my saw was designed for. I quickly amass a large pile of brush that I haul to the edge of the road. Metro Nashville will eventually pick it all up.

After, exhausted, I read email after email from my grieving parent's online support group. There are hundreds of parents here. All of us have lost children. All of us are lost. On days like today, when life doesn't seem to make any sense, I turn to these people who, like me, are overcome with grief. By email I comfort, commiserate, sympathize, recognize and support. This, I think to myself, is the only productive thing I've done all day. Sadly, it's the only thing that makes any sense. None of us should have to belong to this group. None of us should be here.