I haven’t posted for awhile; my son Mike’s illness and subsequent death late last year left me stunned and silent from the nearly unremitting grief. I felt unmotivated to write anything, even the auto-biographical book I had finally begun to flesh out.
It has been like being on a roller coaster, uncontrollable, one minute up and the next one down in the trough. The simplest things could set off the tears…seeing his name in my iPhone contacts and not wanting to delete it;seeing his picture online on Facebook, thinking about Mother’s Day and suddenly remembering he won’t be there. Or, driving along the highway and hearing a song can trigger sobs so deep they hurt my chest.
There are times when I feel ashamed of the depths of my pain, telling myself I should be over this by now, even as I understand that grieving is a process that is unique to each individual, and takes it’s own course.
Many people offered their love and support, for which I am grateful. Words of comfort were abundant, hugs appreciated even more, and silent hugs even better.
I have learned (again,for myself) that nothing I think about my son Mike’s life and how he lived it is any comfort at all, nor does it assuage the feeling that there is a black hole in me left by his death. Death is death, and no amount of thinking helps the grief pass. It is indescribable in its’ ferocity. And…then it diminishes and I see the sunlight poking through the rain, or feel my dog’s loving nuzzle, or my husband’s soft comforting touch. I wish I knew how to convey what it’s really like to lose a child (man-child), but words are not expressive enough. Wailing and sobbing say most of it, and I am grateful when I can just allow that, feel it wash through, and come back to myself.
It has gotten easier with time, and with learning what triggers depression and what uplifts me so I can go on. If you have suffered the loss of a child, I know you can understand what it’s like.
I know I’ve forgotten something; it feels just out of my reach. And this is also part of grieving.
This, too, shall pass.
© 2012, Taru Fisher. All rights reserved.
