Fifty-Three Months...
For better or worse I mark loss in time pretty well.
You might wonder what I mean by that, let me explain.
If there has been a traumatic event, or series of events, in my life, I mark the days, weeks, months, and years from the event(s) in my mental calendar. I don’t even have to think hard – I can almost instinctually count. Furthermore, when there are corresponding numbers of sorts, I usually put those together well before the date they connect.
For example, today is October 25, 2021, and our son died 53 months ago today. I am 53 years old. I connected the 53 numbers on my birthday this year, 5 months ago.
I assume that will go away. Or maybe not. What I do know is that 53 months is both/and: it is both an eternity without him here, and yet it seems like just the blink of an eye that he left.
I’ve been thinking about him a lot lately. I miss his laughter, how his nose would crinkle up and his eyes would squeeze into slits as he laughed from his belly.
I miss staring at his incredible eyelashes and wondering why God would bless men with such gloriously thick, long lashes? Not fair!
I miss rubbing his head, something he asked for a lot, from the time he was a little boy (honestly, there is nothing better than rubbing the head of a little guy who has just had his first summer buzz cut!).
I miss our conversations about religion and politics. Even though it would drive me crazy, I so wish he were here now to sit and talk. I’m sure he would be stunned at some of the things I am processing and walking through. I know he would be proud of my CASA journey, as well as entering the world of policy change. I just wish it would have happened while he was still here. Who knows, maybe the places I will go would not have been arenas I would have stepped into were it not for his prompting.
I miss him saying, “I love you, mom” multiple times when he was here at the house.
For all of the complexities that encompass grief, the simple truth right now is this: I miss him. I have been feeling, once again, like an actual, physical part of my is missing and there is a deep ache that will not leave. Today is simply one of those days where I embrace the truth that it is ok to not be ok. I will not fight it; this is today’s truth.
October is Child Loss Awareness Month (and yes, I’m aware that it is the awareness month for many other causes as well) and my guess is that you know more than one person who is walking through the ebb and flow that the fog of grief brings to the members of this rotten club that no one wants to be a part of. That is if you aren’t already a member of the club as well. Please know that, while you might be thinking the hard days are those like birthdays, Christmas, and anniversary dates – Halloween is also a very hard day for some who have lost children. It is hard because, while you watch the joy on the faces of littles as they dress up and gather sugary treasures, some people will ache because they will never see their little ones in a costume. Some groan when they think that their child will never see their child trick-or-treat or help sort candy on the living room floor like other parents are doing. You see, life returns to ‘normal’ for those on the outside looking in – but normal is never the same again for those who have lost a child (unborn, growing, or grown).
So, if you know someone who is walking through the fog of grief in the loss of a child – be it recent or years past, say their child’s name. Ask how they are doing. Don’t expect an answer other than ‘fine’ but create the space for once to be given. It’s ok to enter into another human’s pain and ache. And it is ok to let them live their wounds. Henri Nouwen said, “You need to let your wounds go down to your heart. Then you can live through them and discover that they will not destroy you. Your heart is greater than your wounds.”
Indeed.
Fifty-three months you’ve been gone, PJ, and I miss you more now than the day you entered Heaven’s gates. The pain and grief remain the same, and yet life is growing around them.
Photo by Leon Contreras on Unsplash
