Last week my baby began her first day of school.
My life just, stopped…briefly, as I adjust to a new beginning, one in which a small person is not next to me in the market, holding my hand down a busy street, calling for me, singing with me, needing me, only me.
And now it is…only me.
My loss feels great, I feel emancipated, yet I feel lost and unregulated. Like my anchor has been loosened and cut and I’ve been left to drift. While my progeny – go on – up in their life. They progress through the system at a dizzying rate leaving me behind far, far behind.
They are calling me occasionally from the top of their tree – far below I stand, underneath the many branches, the hundreds of leaves, looking for them as they climb higher and higher, faster and faster. Until at last all I can hear is a distant shout.
They don’t need me like they used to. I’ll never cradle their baby heads in my arms, or help them dress, sing them soft lullabies, stroke the soft down on their heads. Those days are, without doubt, becoming historical.
My past, their heritage.
Their future lies clear and free. Mine lies quieter, emptier. Distinctly emptier.
The tears keep flowing over a week later. In consultation with a girlfriend she suggests I wallow in my grief, write some poetry (see below), watch a heart-rendering film and generally indulge! Allow the feeling of bereavement to be part of my life in order to let it pass.
Having done this and still feeling bereft I consult my sister, who also happens to be a fantastic homeopath – see here. She suggests I take Pulsatilla 200, which I duly take, and followed by a long cycle-ride in the countryside I begin to feel less bloody miserable.