The days after Norah’s death are a blur. There were so many people in and out of our house at all hours of the day and night. I hated the reason but I loved the company.
Everyone knows that I enjoy planning and hosting and cooking and comforting. It’s what I do. It’s what I’m good at. This time, everyone around us had to plan and host and cook and comfort us. We had to let them. Our house was raw and wide open, just like our hearts.
We were experiencing the deepest type of pain. Indescribable pain. And yet, we were numb. Is this shock? Is this denial? Yes. Yes.
Norah was dead. Norah is dead.
Over the next few days we shed more tears than we had in our entire life. Probably more than several people put together could shed in a lifetime.
We planned our daughter’s funeral. We looked at her dead body in a casket. We watched the casket close knowing we’d never see her again for as long as we were on this Earth. We sobbed. We mourned. We held each other.
We are now living with broken hearts.