perfume and pearls

Each day, the sun rises and sets. The seasons change.
In the garden, flowers bloom and then die.

Death is like the tide – it just is.

Every time I hear of a death, I immediately think, “there is another mother who lost her child.”
I’m not sure how we survive the death of a child, but we do. We find a way to live – not just to survive. But we are changed forever.

When bad days happen, I struggle to stay present but I am sucked backwards in time. With a foot in the past and one in the present, I try to carry on through the day. And, when I am tempted to – again – ask WHY? – I think about this quote by Margaret Brownley,

“perfume can only be produced by crushing flowers; something beautiful must first die…”

I know my face reflects my rawness and I really don’t care. A part of me is gone; I feel diminished, a shadow of my former self.
I am, somehow, less than I was.

And yet I am softer: I feel other’s energy and acutely sense their pain. I am infinitely stronger; I can now survive anything. My discernment is magnified, and I’m crystal clear about what really matters.
Does that mean that, in some way, I am more than I was before my son died?

Rarely is something created without pain and perseverance.  I wonder if our new self (our new normal) forms in the same way as a pearl is created? Do you think our hardship refines us?

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8 months today

I can’t believe 8 months has passed since my son’s accident.  I wasn’t watching the calendar, but should have realized as the physical pain and emotions began to build yesterday.  One thing that is different though – the memories of the accident day haven’t gone away but they do have blurry edges……..  

Last week, a friend offered to help me look through the last box of my son’s belongings.  I had been saving that last box; probably the same impulse that makes me delay reading the last chapter of a really good book – because I don’t want it to end.  But it was time.    

What an odd experience – I was in the moment and I was also watching myself

……..holding his Boy Scout shirt; reading little notes that he wrote; getting teary looking at the old photos; smiling at finger-paintings from 1982; and laughing out loud at his 8-year-old Christmas list (He cut pictures from every catalog he could find, stuffed them inside a manila envelope and wrote on the front: all i want is in here)

a wonderful flood of bittersweet memories

 And I kept thinking, “Why didn’t I save more of his things?”  

Maybe we need to live each day in a way that celebrates the present.  Is that the lesson I need to understand??

Together wherever we go

After 2 weeks of company…… I was amazed to realize that I hadn’t “lost it” while family was visiting; I was too distracted.   Of course we spoke of my son and his accident, but with few tears.

After a sharp pang of guilt, I was almost relieved to feel my constant companion again. That is when I understood that the grief was always there. It is a part of who I am.

This imagery keeps running through my mind…

In the beginning, you run outside because your grief is too large to contain.  You thrash about and scream in pain from grief – as if you are under siege from the elements that are beating at you.   Finally spent, you retreat to inside the house where it feels safe.  

Once inside, you tuck your grief away, wrap yourself in a blanket and rest.  As long as you are inside and safe, you can keep the memories at bay and hold back the tears. But, each time you go to the door and try to open it, the grief storm is there waiting.  So, you slam the door shut and stay put.

You are on guard, because the memories and reminders push at that door.  A song, a book, a harsh comment (even a kind remark on a bad day) will try to drive the door open.

As time goes by – you are able to walk a few feet from the door without worrying that it will be breached.  Those are the days that don’t start and end with anguished thoughts.  In other words, you feel almost normal. 

But, eventually, you have to leave the house.  And when you do, when the door is finally open, it is there waiting for you.

 As my father says, “It doesn’t matter what you do, it never goes away.”  Kinda reminds me of that old (kitschy) song:

“Wherever we go, whatever we do, we’re gonna go through it together “