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 “

 

 

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small mercies

I had a long, painful conversation with my sister who understands what it feels like to lose a child; she has been my rock.  I know how much it hurts her to see me in pain.  When she asked me if I had prayed for God to take away some of my pain, I had to wonder why I was holding on so tightly to my grief.  

I realized that because people were getting back to the business of living, I was afraid that my son would be forgotten. That would be like losing him all over again. 

The next day, I awoke knowing that my son was sent here for restoration and reconciliation.  In the 6 months he lived with us before he died, he learned to love himself, and accept that he was loved. 

I’m so grateful that God sent him here to me before taking him home.

overflowing

If you pour more liquid into an over-filled glass, it simply spills over.

My grandmother just died.  She was wise and loving, and so very giving.  She lived a long life, and I will miss her.  Yet, I am so consumed by the loss of my son, that I’m struggling to properly grieve for my Nana. There just isn’t any room.

It’s been six months since my son died and I’m not sure the pain will ever go away.  

A good friend of mine told me that the six month mark can be one of the most difficult points in the grieving process. Most other people have gone back to everyday life and are no longer constantly thinking about the person who died – and they expect that the grieving family will be experiencing the same thing.  But the family is still in the relatively early stages of grief, made worse by the expectation that they too should be functioning normally. 

I know I can’t expect the world to stop – just because mine did.  I just want people to remember him; I need to know that he still matters even though he is gone. 

 

 

glorious sadness

memories

Right after my son’s accident, I could only recall memories of his last 6 months while living with us.    

It is only recently that the early memories have returned: my son as a baby, toddler, adolescent, and teen – such heartbreaking images. 

Allowing myself to remember what he was – to me and to others, takes me to a dark, lonely place.  In this space, I have no wish to speak; to listen; or to invite anyone in.  Time passes, much like you see in a movie when everything freezes; white noise and nothing-ness blocks the world from getting in.  It is a seductive, solitary place…….and I find it very healing.

“Grief can’t be shared. Everyone carries it alone. His own burden in his own way.” Anne Morrow Lindbergh

 

 

 

broken

There are days when I feel so broken that I want to plead with God – – to cry out to him  – – that I’m not ready to let my son go.  I wake in a panic, afraid that I’ve lost him forever, because I can’t remember the sound of his voice, or his laugh.  My struggle is to find peace in knowing that my son and I will be together again in a new place (he just gets to go there first). 

I wonder if it is true that when you lose a loved one, your mind forgets things so your heart doesn’t keep breaking over, and over again.

Life will never be the same – I will never be the same; I’ve simply lost too much.  And yet, I look around and see all that I’ve been given.  I’m just not sure how to reconcile this realization with the pain in my heart.  I’m constantly reminded: if you give God the pieces, he can take anything broken and make it whole again.  That is my prayer

“The LORD hears his people when they call to him for help. He rescues them from all their troubles. The LORD is close to the brokenhearted; he rescues those who are crushed in spirit.” Psalm 34:17-18