Trying to describe grief

Grief

Grief is very weird when you are not used to experiencing it.

Before I was 50, I did experience the deaths of:

• My cousin, two years younger than me, died from HIV/AIDS when we were both in our late 20’s;
• All four of my grandparents have died – 1974: maternal grandfather when I was 17; 1980 and ’81: paternal grandparents when I was about 23 or 24; maternal grandmother when I was about 35;
• 1986: My mother-in-law died when I was 29;
• 1996: My best male friend at the time died when he was in his early 40’s and I was 39;
• Another very dear male friend died when he was in his mid-50’s and I was about 43;
• My father-in-law died when he was 91 and I was 44.
• Another dear lifelong friend of my wife died when she was 48.
• My cousin died when we were both 49.
  
  

None of this really prepared me for April 28, 2008, when my firstborn child, Daniel, left this earth before he turned 19 and shortly after I turned 51.

This grief has been overwhelming and unspeakable.

Physically, it can feel like:

• you are nauseated;
• you have had the wind knocked out of you and you cannot regain your full lung capacity;
• you are sitting in the dentist chair and they have place the lead vest over your chest in preparation for the x-ray of you mouth;
• you are slightly dizzy and you are continually losing your balance even though you are seated or already lying down
  
  

Emotionally, it is very hard to find words to describe this adequately.

It feels like there is now a permanent gap in the family – an empty room in this house – an empty chair at our table – a hole in each of our hearts that cannot be filled – an absence of one whom we all loved so much and from whom we each received such intense joy. Daniel brought a smile to your face – he was joyful and elicited to joy when you engaged him. He had a simple charm and wit about him. He carried himself with an ease (most of the time) that was both charming and quirky.

Marking THE Time

Monday morning at 10:00 or 10:30 – as usual, this time springs up into my consciousness since six weeks ago right now, Daniel was pronounced officially brain dead.

I took my now customary walk around the block to mark this moment (the second week now that I have done so). On this walk it struck me that “fragile” is the right word to describe so much right now.

Daniel’s life was obviously very fragile and he did not survive those injuries.

All of our lives are equally fragile, though most of us do not recognize this most of the time. Perhaps this is both a blessing and a curse. If we felt fragile all the time, it would be hard to do anything, to take any risks, to even get out of bed most mornings. We need to feel somewhat invincible just to get in our cars and drive to work, much less to downhill ski, or ride bicycles, or swim, or sky-dive, or even to “fall in love” and risk rejection from another human being.

On the other hand, we delude ourselves continually when we feel invincible. Accidents can and do happen – we can be injured and not recover from those injuries. We can be rejected and feel like the other person has killed us emotionally. We can lose a beloved son to a premature death and feel as though our lives have come to some sort of end. In some ways, when you lose someone, your life as you knew it does come to an end, though hopefully some new life begins and may indeed turn out to good as well. For me, the jury will be out on that question for some time to come.

All I really have is right now, though we all have to live and plan as if we have unlimited tomorrow’s.

Maybe to some extent, that makes our delusion of invincibility a blessing, of sorts.

This delusion is also a curse when it means that we go through life truly believing that we are invincible and completely in control of “our destiny” as if we really own it!

When we believe that we are completely in control, then we have to fret over what we feel like we have to control – most of us fret over way too much in our lives. We worry about tomorrow, what we will wear, what we will eat, what people will think of us, if we will succeed, if people will love us or even like us.

What good do all those worries do us? Very little in the end.

Daniel’s abrupt death should serve as a reminder to those of us who loved him. Truly, we are “but dust and to dust we shall return.” God help us to live in that tension, freedom, and hope.

There is nothing that can happen to me and to those I love, that can separate us from the love of God that is in Christ Jesus.

That said, Daniel’s death still leaves me weeping in deep, deep sorrow simply because he is gone and I will miss him terribly until I see him again.