Grief is an incredibly difficult venture, a monumental climb from the pit of despair. It is an absolutely exhausting venture that drains you physically and weighs heavy on your mind. As I look back on the months following my son’s death, I’ve come to realize that I haven’t moved at all.
Even though others may perceive me to be progressing, my movement is lateral at best. As the span of time increases, it becomes more and more difficult to lift myself up. The days slip by, but the moments never escape me. The more I struggle to hold on, the more twisted and frayed my thoughts become. There is a fear attached to moving forward, as if continuing on diminishes the importance of where we have been. Exceeding that is a heightened awareness that there is no going back. It is in these moments that I feel completely stranded. I wander back and forth on contemplation’s narrow shelf.
On one hand nothing exceeds the sheer agony of death; on the other, absence creates a tremendous depression. As I struggle to unravel the endless strands of thought that death has me spinning, it occurs to me that there is some stability in the place in which I stand.
I’m on an outcropping of complacency between the height of anguish and the depths of sorrow.
With space enough to linger, to contemplate, commiserate and catch my breath, I sort through my feelings. I find myself discarding unnecessary thoughts and reflecting on the little things that always make me smile. Flickers from the past ignite memories that produces a warm inner glow. And, even though the future is unfolding, within this space, it does not obstruct my view.
I think there are instances when it’s best to stay focused on where you are. The enormity of what lies ahead is too overwhelming and looking back will only bring you down. Considering how much we have already suffered, a break is certainly something we are due. Pausing doesn’t restore my motivation to pursue life’s summit, but it keeps me from going over the edge.
To avoid seeming as though I am overlooking the point of our sadness, I’ve decided to extend myself, and offer a line that is purposely crafted to be uplifting. I do this not only to reach out to others, but so I might feel secure within the space I’ve found to rest.
“The lariat of love is so immeasurable that it easily extends from earth into heaven. So unbreakable that it binds them together. If we gather the strength to draw our selves a little closer, we will see those on the other side are pulling for us.”
Tags: grief, hope
John,
I am so sorry for your loss. My heart goes out to you, your wife, and your daughter. I wish there were words that would bring comfort…
I wish you peace…
Dear John
I am happy that you at least are attempting to see things in a positive way one step at a time and that is perhaps the very best thing one can do. Please continue to reflect on the little things which makes you smile. I hear your pain
John, very beautifully written, thank you for the words that explain so well. It’s only been a little over one year for you and I know the feeling of moving laterally. It’s been 2 years for me and I now have more good days (relatively) than bad. keep writing
peace
It hasn’t been a year for John just a few months….barely half a year…the time matters…..acknowledging how long he’s been gone matters…. 5 months since my son died….I don’t remember them but they passed. Tonight I stepped outside and smelt an early spring rain after a very pretty day in Atlanta. I had to work showing property all day long and it drained me it tired me…perhaps that is why on smelling that rain it hit me almost instantly the joy of Spring will not be his, there are no new beginings for him or really for me anymore…the months loom ahead the days the weeks and I ponder where I will be and when the pain will grow softer as that is all I am promised from those that have walked ahead that one day the pain will be softer…but not today…no not today.
There is some stability in the place in which you stand. These words were helpful to me. There has to be something on this journey to hold on to. And the place where we are right now is all that we have. There is nothing I would love more than to turn back time. To have my beautiful daughter here with me. But it is not possible so like you have said we have the now to reside in, as painful as it is. And looking forward and backward may not serve us best.
Dear John,
These two lines says it all:
“I feel completely stranded. I wander back and forth on contemplation’s narrow shelf.”
“I’m on an outcropping of complacency between the height of anguish and the depths of sorrow.”
Your writing speaks volumes to me. I feel your pain, because I am living it. I lost my son Nickolas (age 26) to complications of a bone marrow transplant for leukemia. Thank you for explaining this place so well. I want to make a copy and hand it out to everyone I know who even remotely thinks “I am doing OK.” Who can understand the constraints of such an existence? I wonder how long this outcropping can support my weight? When will the branch snap and I will find myself plummeting into the depths of my own sorrow? Will I be able to find my way to a stronger branch before that happens?
Who will help me find my footing so I won’t fall?
Still searching for peace and new meaning for my life, Diane
John,
You are truly amazing. Thanks so much for sharing you pain and loss with the world and being a part of the Open to Hope Family. You make a difference and YOU DO NOT WALK ALONE. Dr. Gloria