NOTE: This is sad, dealing with topics such as grief and death.
Sheldon wiped his hands across his face, as if trying to wipe the exhaustion away. He'd stopped crying ten minutes ago; however, now all he could feel was nothing. It felt like a deep dark pit in which he was alone. Where his voice echoed off of the obscurity and right back into his face. Where the all-consuming darkness was really the magnitude of the situation weighing down so heavily on his mind that he just decided to stop feeling.
He'd been there for his mother. He hugged her, cried with her. Grieved with her. He'd done the same with his sister. And his brother, and his aunts and his uncles. He drained his emotions in their grief. He allowed himself that. But in the end, there was nothing left for him.
No hugs.
No shared tears.
No mutual grief.
He was left to his own devices, and his own deep, dark, humiliatingly depressing grief.
No one batted an eye when he quietly left the room to escape to the hospital garden. He'd cried for almost an hour and no one came looking for him. He'd found his solitude amongst the flora and fauna of the small Medford medical center.
Normally, Sheldon would relish in his isolation. But MeeMaw was dead, and he was alone.
Alone with seemingly no one to turn to for comfort.
Tears came rushing back to eyes in a torrent. He hated this. Losing his Dad felt similar, but at fourteen, Sheldon could look to his mother for support. She was there every step of the way to guide him through his heartache.
But this was MeeMaw, she was different. Her love was overwhelming; not just for Sheldon, but for his mother alike. This death felt like a physical pain, he couldn't imagine what it was doing to his mother.
When Sheldon held his mother right outside of his grandmother's hospital room, it was almost as if he could feel her coming apart in his hands. He told her the news that MeeMaw had passed and Mary had nearly collapsed, as if her legs had become putty. She let out a wail so loud it almost sounded inhumane. Her hand gripped the chain of her cross necklace so hard that it snapped in two. And through it all, Sheldon held his mother; letting her transfer her grief to him.
Mary had let her grief manifest, because that was all she could do. Thankfully she had someone right there with her to guide her through it. Yet, Sheldon let his rip him up inside. Every tear he shared with his family was a crack in the dam he had built up in the week MeeMaw was in the hospital. Every hug felt like little pickaxes tearing away at its walls.
And yet, through it all, Sheldon felt like he couldn't unleash his misery on anyone as he had let everyone else. He'd had family when his dad died, but his current family was all the way in California. Sleeping, completely unaware of what was happening. And his wife, bone of his bone, flesh of his flesh, was less than a mile away in a hotel room. Right where he left her when he got the call at 1:30 in the morning.
Yes, he was alone, but in most ways he brought it upon himself. And those tears that had resurfaced just moments earlier spilled over his cheeks. Sucking what little moisture Sheldon had left in his body, out.
He rested his elbows on his knees and buried his head in his hands. Once again letting the black abyss consume him once more.
Suddenly, through the darkness, a light shimmered in the darkness. The illumination nearly blinded his pain and he felt a momentary calm come over him. Snapping his head up, he came face to face with his Amy. The one constant he could count on.
Her eyes, like so many of his family, were glossed over with pain, but it was clearly meant for him. He was hurting, she was his wife, in turn she too was feeling pain. For him.
She had placed a hand gently on his shoulder. It was the lightest of touches, but it snapped whatever resolve he hand left in him. He buried his face in her midsection and held on tightly to waist.
And just like that he allowed himself the right to grieve. Melting in Amy's arms and she reached down and pulled him up into a hug. He let his chin come to rest on her shoulder and his tears slid down onto the soft cotton of her shirt. His hands stayed stationary on her waist, holding her a little too tight. His body shook as he let the death of his dearly departed grandmother wash over him.
His lips quivered with every exhale and every time, Amy's grip on him tightened. "Shhh, it's ok, sweetheart," she whispered in his ear as she rocked him back and forth. Just like his mama had when daddy died.
Eventually, his sobs dwindled into nothingness and all that was left was the vibration of his body as shivers coursed through him. Amy ran her hands gently down his neck and pulled him back. She wiped away two tears that had stuck to his face with her thumbs.
"I'm sorry," she consoled, continuing to stroke his jawbone with her fingers. Yet, with no energy left in him to cry, all he could do was nod. "Your mother called me," Amy announced after a brief moment of silence. "Told me what happened and that she hadn't seen you in a while."
"Yeah," Sheldon mumbled in reply, wincing slightly at how hoarse his voice was.
"She also said that you weren't allowing yourself to grieve."
Sheldon's head sunk. Even though he wasn't intentionally trying to, he caused his mother even more distress. He thought that because he wept with those wept that he'd done his part. Even though he had two . and a Nobel he still failed at social ques and responses. In his head, he'd done everything right, but all he wanted was for it to be his turn.
Amy continued. "She told me that your aunts and uncles tried to comfort you but you would just cry silently as they held you."
That glint of deep concern returned to Amy's face. "Why aren't you letting them help you?" She asked, running her hands up and down his arms in question.
Sheldon sunk back against the bench behind him, exhausted. Honestly, now that he was being questioned about it, he didn't know. Everyone in the family knew of Sheldon and Constance's bond, so, why would Sheldon think they expected something from him first. If there was something his mother's side was not it was selfish. It was insulting to them for him to think that they expected something from him first.
"I talked to them before I came down here, they want to help you, Sheldon," Amy said, sitting next to him on the bench and wrapping an arm around him. "Let them help you, because the next few months are going to hurt like hell."
"It already hurts like hell," he mumbled.
Amy squeezed him tighter. "I know it does, so, let your family help because they're the only people that are feeling this just the same as you are."
Sheldon lifted his head to look at her, his eyes staring to feel the weight of exhaustion. "Will you help me?"
"You don't even have to ask that, because you know I will!" Amy choked out, leaning over to kiss him on his tear stained cheek. As soon as her lips left his skin, she immediately wiped any residue away with her knuckles.
She stood up before him and extended her hand. "Come on," she beckoned. "Your mother is worried."
Sheldon let his wife guide him through the corridors and hallways of the hospital to the waiting room where his family was congregated. His mother was the first to jump up, and even as she enveloped him in a hug, Sheldon refused to let go of Amy's hand. He needed her to anchor him, to not allow him to collapse under the chaos.
Grief was messy, and complicated, but Amy had helped him get over his fear of things that were messy and complicated. With her at his side, he knew he could get to the other side of this dark long tunnel. He wouldn't exit the same man as he had entered, but rather a stronger one. But he needed his mother, sister, brother, friends and family.
But he needed what outshined all of them. He needed his constant.
He needed Amy.