Yesterday, April 30, it was five years since my thirty year old, first-born child, Philip, died. Today is the day of the week it was, and I will spend today watching the clock, knowing where we were, what we were doing, what we talked about, and what we ate, as the day progresses to the time when I watched him drive out of my driveway to die of heart failure a short time later, that Sunday evening.
I know how today will pass, because I've lived through four other days like this one. I know that I will cry, and I know that I will be exhausted when I go to bed tonight.
Grieving is very hard work. It means opening up your heart and letting the pain of loss truly permeate your soul. It is, as they say, "the price of love." It is, also, as Stephen King said, "...like a drunken houseguest who keeps coming back over and over again, to say goodbye."
It does not leave. But it does change.
I had three years of grief counseling after Philip died, and attribute my knowledge of Myself and Grief to this counseling. There were times I just cried throughout the hour-long session, times I expressed anger, hurt, resentment, and God only knows those feelings that losing one's child evoked. But the good news is that those feelings were expressed.
Right now you are probably saying, "Why is she writing about this?" I am writing about grief today, because it is, now, a part of who I am, and who I will be for the rest of my life. Losing one's child changes a person, and it can be for the better or for the worse. I believe that my counseling experience has made life livable for me. My counselor also formed a support group for some of us.
A group of grievers meets, and the support from these other parents and spouses, who are also grievers, has been a huge part of my wellness. We know how each other feels. We've shared stories of people who have said things like, "Get over it!" or, "You mean you're not over that yet?" or "I cried all day yesterday when I buried my mother, and now I am going to just go on with my life."
We've shared stories of the "signs" that we've received and interpreted as coming from our departed loved ones, and taken joy and hope from the experiences that we've shared. We've truly come to believe, as a group of grievers, that life is eternal. (We've also been amazed when we shared those tales of "signs" with others who say they believe in Eternal Life, and act as if we're crazy when we mention that we've had proof! )
We've cried together, gotten good advice from our grief counselor, our leader, and become dear friends in the process. They say that "grief can change one's address book," and we've also shared some of those stories. It is true. Some friends may have found me gloomy, some co-workers found me less interested in my job, and some people just really don't know what to say, or write, to someone who is deeply grieving. (Which is why they have sympathy cards.)
My address book has changed over the past five years. I have stopped trying to maintain family relationships with relatives who said nothing after Philip died. I wonder if they missed my newsy Christmas letters. (And yes, they did know about Philip.)
Today, this Sunday, is not like a year ago, in that TIME has moved on. The rawness of the grief has healed, somewhat. I calculated that I have now lived for 1,825 days since then. I've gotten up every single day and "put one foot in front of the other," as we say. I've gone through all the stages of grief, on and off again, and finally know that I've reached acceptance. I've had the "magical thinking," had some yelling sessions with God, and cried more tears than I ever knew were humanly possible.
Interestingly, I have grown as a spirit, and as a spiritual person, because of this grief. I've reached out to others who have lost a child: We understand each other. My address book has grown to include a list of like-minded friends, who "get it," when we stare into space for a few minutes, skip a Christmas Eve service, tear up over music, or bring up the name of our loved one during conversation instead of pretending that he or she never existed. This has been my gift from this five years. I have embraced grief, and become a better person because of this, I think.
I have also deeply appreciated my friends and family who have supported me. I've understood that I have reasons to "keep on keeping on," in part, because of the love they've shown me. My beloved husband has heard it all, and he has held my hand, and me, and let me weep. He never told me to stop feeling what I was feeling, as if I could have stopped. He has listened for countless hours about those feelings, and loves me yet.
My friends (the ones still IN the address book) have been wonderful. I cannot name them all, but they know who they are. One sat quietly by my side for an entire day, not talking, while I slept in a chair, early on. Her quiet presence was reassuring. Others sent cards on days that they knew were important to me. Phone calls. Hugs. Meals. Emails. Invitations to be together for dinner, art walks, and coffee. My friends have held me up. To paraphrase something Philip once said, I am rich with friends.
It is now 10:30 AM. Five years ago on that Sunday, at this moment, I was sitting on the porch saying a prayer for my son's health. I know exactly what I prayed for, and how I said it. Philip and Randy were sitting in the kitchen, watching TV and having breakfast. Today I will mark that day, hour by hour, not to be sad about it, but because I had that day. I've come to see it as a gift, that I got to spend that last day of his life with Philip.
We are all touched by grief at some time. It is inescapable. If not, then it would mean that we were solitary individuals, without people who we love, in our lives. Or it would mean that we denied our true feelings, and did not allow ourselves the right to grieve. Stephen King was right. This grief comes back over and over and over again. Many times it slaps me in the face when I least expect it. I know that it will continue to do that.
I've known since I began this blog that I would someday have to write about grief. It is the most awful feeling in the world, without a doubt, in my opinion. When our country's worst enemies' sons and family members have been killed in the turmoil of war in recent years, I have actually felt sorry for those enemies. That's probably part of the lesson of this experience in my life: compassion for others.
Would I change this, in my life, if I could? IN A HEARTBEAT.
But since I have gone past that stage of "magical thinking," and I know I cannot do that, probably what I need to do is let others know that they can live through grief, and more than likely, even when it doesn't seem possible, you will.
copyright: KP Gillenwater
