Living in a Nightmare

This morning I sat in church as the names were read of those who recently transitioned. As I sat listening to the chorus of names, my heart bled for the families left to experience what I call the “nightmare.” I wish I could find another word more peaceful and angelic, but honestly the days lingering between a loved one’s death and their actual funeral is like living through a nightmare from which you cannot wake up. Every breath feels like your last and every thought is encompassed with a lack of control.

I remember dreading every moment I was awake following mom’s death. There was this understanding that I had to survive, but this relentless ambiguity in how I would. Waking up was painful; living was painful. It seemed like everything I did was a heavy reminder of the burdensome grief that was suffocating me. As much as I dreaded her death, I dreaded her funeral a million times more. Endless cards, calls, texts and messages came in promising prayers of comfort and relief, but even those became liken to a chorus of numb melancholy.
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It’s hard to say the exact moment in which this nightmare ends, for there are days even now that the nightmare resurfaces; days when I just want to sleep instead of be awake; days when I burst into unexpected tears; days when the burden of losing my parents still feels unbearable; days when I can literally hear Mom taking her final breath; days when I am living in a nightmare. Yet, despite those days of emotional claustrophobia, I always wake up. And as time passes, the days do not linger as long; the tears are more quickly wiped away, and I am reminded that my reality is better than any dream.