I’ve never really been much for lots of tears.
Most of my crying before Dominic ran ahead to heaven consisted of silent tears slipping down my cheeks and onto my chin. Every now and then I would have a good, old-fashioned sob.
But between April 12,2014 and that October or November, I cried every day. I cried so much I thought surely I would run out of tears. I cried so much I needed to drink more water to remain hydrated.
Then it stopped.
The ache settled deeper into my bones and tears no longer came as an easy outlet for the pain I was feeling.
I still cried a few times a week, but not as long or as loud as those first months. I could tell (most of the time) what had triggered the tears-a photo, a song, an item his hands had touched, a memory or even a whiff of someone who wore the same cologne walking past in a crowd.
Then THAT stopped.
I got so good at stuffing the immediate emotional response I hardly ever cried anymore.
Except that sometimes-random moments-the heavy lid I keep screwed down tight on all those feelings comes undone. And I am helpless as the sorrow, missing and horror of child loss creeps up my spine, raises my heart rate and settles as a silent scream at the back of my throat.
A sob escapes. The tears flow. Usually I’m done for that day-left a quivering mass of emotional jello, unable to pack it all up and get on with things.
And that’s OK.
I don’t cry every day anymore, but when I do, it’s a necessary and important part of the healing process.
I won’t apologize for my tears.