I came across a quote I found interesting today while I was playing one of my favorite word games –
“Humans think in stories and we try to make sense of the world by telling stories.”
Losing a 25-year-old son is a life event that can never make any sense, no matter how many stories are told. But telling stories – whether mine, his, or our family’s – helps me get through another moment of life without him.
I haven’t written in quite sometime – since February, in fact. There are only so many ways I can say “I miss my son so much and I wish with all my heart he had not died in a car accident almost 12 years ago”. But telling stories helps assuage this near-constant ache.
So much has taken place over the past year or so. A new grandbaby. A wedding. Grandchildren growing up so quickly; the oldest one turning 21 last month. Dan and I aging – and this one is becoming annoying! A possible move (to a new residence) several months ago. The possible move falling through a few months later. The emotional roller-coaster ride all that caused. A car accident hubby was in that caused a concussion that took a couple of months of rest to get over. The cessation of our meetings with a few friends to study the Bible and worship together as a result of the previously mentioned move/don’t move/rest/recover roller coaster. It has been an exhausting whirlwind of unexpected and expected events that has left hubby and I a bit addle-brained. But we have been moving forward, as time always pushes us to do.
Back to the reason I write this blog, though – the loss of my 25-year-old son and the path of grief that loss has forced me to walk for the past almost 12 years.
I have always experienced the beautiful, life-giving grace and love of God. And for the past 12 years it has always been with me, helping me carry the weight of this loss. Over the past 5-6 years, though, I’ve been pleasantly surprised by the return of simple, daily joy in my life. This new-found joy has brought about a bit of a shock, at times, though, as I have relaxed my stance against constant pain. Let me try to explain. For the first 5 years after my son died, I was a walking wound. After a couple of years, I didn’t feel like I was a bloody mess of a wound, but I did still feel like an open wound walking around. I learned, after a year or so, to almost constantly hold a shield, so to speak, in front of me anytime I was anywhere but home with my husband and children. I learned that the wound left by the sudden, unexpected, tragic loss of my middle child left a wound that is so easily re-inflicted that I had to always be on the ready for any innocently asked question (like “did all your kids make it over for the holidays?”) or any insensitive comment (like “I know exactly how you feel”). Everything sent me reeling into a day or so of having to stay home and nurse the flare-up of the pain. It was almost ridiculous, if it wasn’t for the reason behind it. For the past several years, I have been able to more or less function normally without having to carry my heavy shield in front of me. It’s close by, for sure. But not always in my hands, guarding my wounded heart.
I had a new experience recently, though, that I wasn’t prepared for.
I sometimes think about who my son would be now, almost 12 years after we lost him. He was a beautiful, hopeful, looking-forward-to-his-future young man the last time we saw him as he left a block party he had agreed to come out and attend with hubby and I and our youngest daughter that cool Sunday afternoon in October. I can still see him, and his unique walk, hurrying across our street, back to his dearly loved motorcycle and his escape from our neighbors and their neighborly chatter. I know there was no sound except the wind and his footsteps fading away that day. But in my memory, I hear a kind of music – a sad, solemn song – and his stride slows to slow-motion – as I watch him walk away the last time I saw him alive. It is a movie I don’t pull out and watch very often anymore because it still evokes the same unbearable pain in the center of my being.
I wonder, now, what he would look like and how he would have changed. His brothers have grown and matured and become the most handsome young men. They have aged and matured for 12 years. They look a little different than they did 12 years ago.
His sisters have become the most amazingly accomplished young women, having, like their brothers, matured in a way only tragic loss can bring about. They, too, are 12 years older and look a little different.
What would he have looked like? How would his view of life have changed? Would he be married? Have children? Live closer?
We changed TV providers last week, so a young man came over to get us started with the new service. I was gone when he arrived, but came home an hour or so after he’d been here working. He and hubby had some questions for me when I arrived and we worked through those, then assumed a normal conversation as the young man worked on connecting things. A “normal” conversation. My shield was in the other room:) I was home and all would be “safe”.
The first thing I noticed was his southern accent. I think I must’ve asked him something about it, as I can remember him telling us where he lived before he moved to our area, but I can’t remember much of anything else he said…….except 1 word: ’89. I don’t know why, when my emotions kick in, almost to the point of being overwhelming, the only thing I can remember is what set them off. “I was born in ’89”.
He was a scruffy-looking dish-water blonde, with messy hair and a thin fuzzy beard. He was about the same height. Walked similarly. Born the same year. He had a girlfriend and a 12-year-old son. He was kind. He knew what he was doing, but didn’t act like a know-it-all. He was respectful. He enjoyed talking with Dan and I. We enjoyed talking with him.
I miss my son so much. I don’t know if the pain was worth getting an imaginary glimpse of someone born the same year as my son, but I made myself enjoy it anyway. If only imaginary could be reality. Some day. What a happy day that will be.
My Journey Through 