The sun finally broke through in Griefland. It's yet to be seen if this is a brief crack in the clouds or if brighter days are truly in store. Recently, I have felt glimmers of acceptance. Accepting that this happened to us; accepting that this was somehow destined to be and there was nothing I or anyone else could have done to prevent it; accepting that much good will come from A's life and tragic death. These moments are fleeting but god do they raise me up.
They say everything happens for a reason. And while I cannot come up with any justifiable reason that my son died, I have a sense of some greater purpose. That this horrendous tragedy had to occur in order for some bigger good to come about.
You know, it's like how some of the bereaved mother's who lost their babies years and years ago say things like "I wouldn't have it any other way." This horrified me when I first heard it. But maybe there's a deeper wisdom to it.
I don't know. But hopefully I'll figure it out more down the road. Meanwhile, I apprehensively await the other shoe to drop and depression to descend again. That's the thing with this grief rollercoaster, even when I have a streak of "ok" days and feel a little like my old self, I'm anxious; expecting the storm to come barreling through at any second.
It's summertime in Washington, where I live, and even though the sun is shining and the breeze is kicking up, my soul feels heavy today, as it always feels when I am suddenly struck by how beautiful the world still is, and how she's not here to see it. I lost my baby too, but she was bigger. She died 9 days before her 21st birthday, on Christmas night, 2008. In every tree or breeze or flower or sunset or moon rise, I see her eyes. She was hysterically funny, a mean Scrabble player, a voracious reader, a beautiful writer, a good friend. And a drug addict. She died of an overdose that they tell me was accidental. They told me this because her shoes were placed side by side by the side of the bed, her cell phone was charging, and there were other signs that she fully expected to wake up. But she must have overshot the mark. So while they told me it was accidental, I can't help but see the intentionality in all this. And does it finally matter? No. Not one bit. You have a child and now she's dead. Nothing else makes this any easier or harder, and there are days I am getting through on hands and knees, and some days I don't get through very well. And other days, I call them "un-days," it almost feels like she's away at summer camp and will be calling soon to tell me this is some horrible misunderstanding, but the days still feel so surreal. I welcome a chance to post on this blog, which so beautifully expresses this strange journey through Griefland.
ReplyDeleteHi Nancy - Thank you for commenting. I am so very sorry for your loss. The death of a child is so unnatural. It goes against the normal cycle of life. Your reference to "un-days" is powerful and true. It's as though the mind and spirit refuse to accept this new reality without your child in it. That life without her is unfathomable or like you said, surreal.
DeleteSending you love.
Oh, thank you so much, and yes, it is so unnatural. When I try to visualize myself 20 years from now, aged 77, I wonder if I will feel more insane than I do now. Whether I will feel excited about living again. What keeps you going, if I can ask that? What gets you from day to the next?
DeleteFor me, it's my husband. I honestly think if he weren't in my life I would have faded away and died by now. There were times, especially soon after A's death, that suicide entered my consciousness. It seemed the only relief from the pain and hopelessness. But the idea of causing him that much more anguish on top of what he was already dealing with always brought me back to (semi)rationality.
DeleteAnd now, as I carry our second child, there is an added layer of motivation to survive each day; to have living children and the family we've dreamed of.
But it really isn't easy. People always say to me, "You're so strong." Not really. The only alternative to trudging through the day is to shrivel up and die. Literally that's the only other option.
You are further out than me. Do the holidays, birthdays and anniversaries get any easier?
I linger in this moment trying to make sense of everything that has happened up to this point in time. My life was a perfect "10" until the phone rang, telling me my son, Alex, had died. Life changed in an instant. He was 22. It's been eight years and I am still teetering, still sinking in the quicksand of grief. Most people think I'm 'over it,' as if that's humanly possible. It's amazing how time and life move on, with or without you. You try to keep up with it, but let's face it, some days are better than others. Today was one of those days when I wanted to curl up in a ball and disappear. Some days I feel like I reside in a parallel universe, watching the rest of the world move on, me - still stuttering on the language and dialect of this place called Griefland. It's hard to explain to outsiders. I lecture all over the world, and what I've learned is that loss, although difficult for most to talk about - is part of the human condition, a universal experience, that everyone gets at some point. Some of us just got a head start. A few months ago, when invited to speak at a Women's Symposium at Princeton, I spoke about my "Life Sentence." I am a writer and the play on words allowed me to come out of the closet and share my personal grief journey. The minute my speech finished, women stormed me - sharing their own losses, grateful for permission to grieve out loud. The Cemetery Club that surrounds me is huge. The losses vary - from stillborn babies to children who drown, have died playing the choking game, perished in automobile accidents, airplane crashes, or like my son, died of a drug overdose. I know moms who have lost multiple children at one time - and I think to myself how in the world do they survive? The reality is this: We are living in an era of loss - we are losing aging parents, friends, colleagues, breasts, and some - like us, are losing children. We must forge a community where making discourse about the good, bad and ugly aspects of our grief travels is welcome and applauded. Let's lift the veil, make eye contact, and then wrap our arms around each other. It's a start. A very good start.
ReplyDeleteThank you for stopping by my blog. My heart breaks for your loss. Eight years without him doesn't seem like a whole lot of time.
DeleteThere are many times when I will the earth to stop spinning. I want desperately for time to stop.
Those who have experienced loss and grief tend to be open to sharing, even needing the outlet, the community, the validation. It is the unscathed of our society who avoid looking directly at my grief, who rush to cover my agony with platitudes. I wish they could set aside their anxieties and discomfort for a few moments and just listen. Don't judge, don't feel compelled to say "the right thing," just listen with an open heart.
Holding you and Alex in my heart.
Nancy & Armen - My brother-in-law is an addict. He's a brilliant young man and has struggled with addiction for years. Right now he's out of state, clean (as far as we know) and has outpatient support.
ReplyDeleteI have seen what this has done to my mother-in-law. She's tried everything to help her son - getting him professional help; setting boundaries, in-patient rehab, etc. We are grateful is alive, healthy and clean. But it doesn't abate the fear that the phone call could come any day. It is a tremendous stress on my dear mother-in-law.
When I hear of tragedies like yours, my heart breaks wide open. I want to believe there is no force in the world more powerful than a mother's love. Addiction shatters that belief. As a mother, you would do anything, sacrifice anything, to keep your children safe. I am sure you both went through hell trying to protect your kids. I am so, so sorry that addiction overcame them. I am so very sorry you fought so hard and still lost them. It is so unfair.
Oh, God, then you know what this is doing to your family and your poor mother-in-law, who I am grieving for all over again today. On one level, I don't know whether I'm luckier now or before Rachel died. I spent so much time chasing her, trying to save her, I would have thrown myself in front of a train if it would have helped. And now, in a very strange -- really surreal way -- I almost feel closer to her in death than while she was alive. Your words are so much comfort today, dear lady.
ReplyDeleteLike you, my husband is the reason I'm still alive at the moment. I recall one night, a few months after Rachel died, when I was standing in my garage at 3 am, not even remembering how I got there, and looking at an electrical chord, wondering if I had the balls to do it, and knowing I couldn't bear the thought of waking up one more day feeling half dead myself. How in the world do we DO this, anyway? Yes, you are stronger than you think you are, dear lady, and to hear you are pregnant again is miraculous, wonderful; and yet, it doesn't dull the pain of losing A. He is gone, and no amount of children will ever take that loss away.
ReplyDeleteHolidays?
Well, Rachel died on Christmas, so people are under this interesting assumption that Christmas is a bad day for me. Not really...I've only been through 3 now without her, but the really bad days are those "un" days, or random days where I run into a curly redhead in Save Mart, about her age, or on the way to the bank or dry cleaners. Those days that are innocuous, really, but something happens that knocks the breath out of you, that knocks you to the ground. Going to the grocery store and suddenly noticing fresh peaches (when did I make her favorite peach cobbler last? She has asked me to bake one shortly before she died. Had I done that?). And there I go, over the end of sanity once more.
No, my dear, this is just my experience, but holidays are not always bad days for me; it's the random moments that hit me. I teach English at the college and university levels, so when I see a young woman looking strung out waltz into class, she's Rachel. I have taken such students aside, put my arms around them, try to instill some sense of reality into them.
I went back to teaching 2 weeks after Rachel died, and have no idea how I did that. Facing 37 21-year-olds her age, staring at me with something like hope in their eyes, kept me vertical and standing that month. You will find your way through this though, and I so hear you when you say it's not so much courageous, but it's what we have to do. This is the hand we were dealt, wasn't it?
I hear you. Sometimes the most ordinary little thing will set me off. A Dad walking hand-in-hand with his toddler into the grocery store. A specific song. It is the everyday triggers that catch me off guard. Love to you and yours Nancy.
ReplyDeleteFunny you mention songs, or music. It was impossible for me to listen to music after Rachel died, and I still have to be careful. I notice my taste has changed. I listen a lot more to blues and jazz than classic rock or classical, two of my favorites from before. It's almost like the blues speaks to me now. I realize that art, music, literature can ease our ways too, throughout this trek in Griefland, but it has taken a long time, nearly four years, for me to even be able to stand it. It's as though everything hurts, even the air.
ReplyDelete"It's as though everything hurts, even the air." So true. There are days it is so oppressive it feels like I'm suffocating - literally.
ReplyDeleteOh, I know. That sense of not being able to breathe, as though you are somehow under water, looking up, everything blurry above you. And those horrible moments where you don't even care if you ever make it to the top at all. You could just lie down and die yourself and feel grateful that at long last, this emptiness, this sense of being vacant, will finally be over. Yet no dark moment lasts forever, and we find some magical strength -- either from a girlfriend, our husbands, who can pull us up and keep us vertical till it subsides.
ReplyDelete