One year

It's strange that tomorrow is one year since Eli died. So much has happened because time just keeps going. I'm a different person than I was the last time I was with Eli. That hurts. Simple things like buying a new planner (I use a July-June planner), or looking for a picture on my phone and scrolling waaaaay back to the last time Eli was alive are simple things, but they are reminders of how long it's been and how ruthless time is. And they hurt.
I remember sitting at the funeral home and the funeral director asking me if Eli's death was sudden. (He then proceeded to use several "at least statement". What a schmo.) The thing was, I didn't know how to respond to his question. Eli was incredibly sick. His chances of survival were low. But the timing of his death felt quite surprising.
It's strange how our minds warp things over time. I have been thinking for some time recently that Eli's death had been imminent and his transplant was iffy. Only because I'm not in that world anymore. But this month I've been following along daily with the updates I posted last July. Man, Eli had really been making progress. And his transplant was kicking ass. I'm so proud of him. And I'm so sorry we couldn't save him.  
If I have to be alive, which it looks like I do, then part of me is grateful I've made it a year. Even though it sucks to be this far removed from my kid. I would go back to be with him if I could. But I'm glad the early weeks and months of missing him are behind me. They are so violent. They are full of anxiety attacks and muscle spasms and hysteria. Deep grief has a remarkable physical effect on your body. I had an eye twitch for six months. SIX MONTHS! It drove me insane. I would just put my hand over my eye with light pressure and will it to stop. It didn't. It would last for hours every day. Now I have a level anxiety all the time, but it doesn't peak in anxiety attacks anymore. My eyes don't twitch. My sleep is a bit more routine. Being in the world is a bit less exhausting. I am able to do things like run errands and cook dinner sometimes. Not that I do those things all the time, but I couldn't do any of that for awhile.
I read once that after the loss of a loved one the hole you feel doesn't close up, your life just grows larger around it. That has proven to be true. Although life growing larger and encompassing the hole is exceptionally painful. But it's the way of the world. There are not too many other choices, and none of them are good.
I don't want to face another year, or ten more, or fifty more. But I'll do it. I so want my life growing larger to be a gentle experience, but I know it won't be.