Five months . . .

September 28, 2008

Five months ago today, Daniel died.

In some respects, it now seems like a lifetime ago that we began this weird journey; in others ways, it seems like just yesterday.

We marked this day in different ways, Carol and I.  She was in Missoula to attend a memorial service for all who have died recently at St. Patrick Hospital, as well as attending church at the Episcopal Church where Father Steve who visited us that weekend serves.  Carol also spent time with Mal, and caught up on how many of Daniel’s old high school buddies are doing.

I was at home, tending to the kids and the routine, though I also engaged two different friends today in conversations about “how we are doing.” 

In all of these conversations the same conclusion was reached – none of us (Daniel’s family or his friends) can “do” our grieving alone, at least, not very well.  Somehow, we need to engage with others in order to make sense of, or even to begin to understand, what we are feeling.  Figuring out one’s feelings on your own seems impossible.  I am not even sure what “making sense” of something like this means, but I am absolutely sure that it cannot be done in the solitary of one’s mind or heart.  Somehow our thoughts and feelings take on more clarity and even vibrancy as we share them with others.  Indeed, they somehow take on life as we share them and see them in the open.

One friend I visited with (by text messages nonetheless!) commented about “gaining and losing perspective” on Daniel’s death.  It seems that the only way to gain perspective is to literally lay out the thoughts and feelings in the daylight of a conversation, and thereby somehow “see” them for what they are and perhaps for what they are not.  Likewise, we probably lose perspective (at least I know I do) when I keep my thoughts and feelings contained within myself, and by so doing, get caught in some even weirder patterns of feeling very alone and very despondent.

September 16, 2008

Waves of sadness

A much older but very dear friend, Boyd, lost his wife recently and this is how he describes his grief:  he sees himself standing on a beautiful sandy beach, out in the water up to his waist and every time a large wave rolls in, he is knocked down and struggles mightily to get back to his feet.  The grief is obviously the wave that keeps rolling in and knocking him down.

That metaphor describes my daily life right now.  I keep feeling the power of the waves of grief as they roll in and roll over me.  Often knocked to my knees or even flat on my face emotionally and spiritually I struggle to regain my footing and to even find some stable sand that isn’t also sinking around my feet.  Though I have never actually experienced under-tow in an ocean, I am guessing that what I feel beyond the wave is the equivalent of emotional under-tow – a sense that I am knocked down and feel as though there is a force that is pulling me deeper and deeper under the water and I might never come back to the surface for air, much less regain my footing and be able to walk out of the water under my own volition.

The surge of sadness continues, perhaps even gaining in momentum with some storm-like energy.

September 1, 2008

What a Difference a Year Makes

One year ago right now we were on our way back from Spokane after dropping Daniel off for his freshman year at Whitworth.  All four of us went, since Carol and I thought it would be a good experience for Hannah and Ben to see Daniel’s school and dorm, meet his roommates, share in some of his first college experiences, and thus begin their adjustments to his absence from their daily lives.  That weekend trip was wonderful and painful in so many ways. 

Daniel was totally ready for college, though like all of us, he was apprehensive about all the details – could he handle the academic responsibilities, the new relationships, his roommates, and all the rest?  The central painful theme of his leaving hit us all – our family was changed forever since Daniel was beginning the process of leaving the nest.  The dynamics of our daily life at home would change and we would all miss the one who seemed so easy for each of us to engage, to love, and to enjoy.

That weekend Carol and I had our first real deep experience of the bitter-sweetness of parenting – letting a son go, knowing he is ready and will have many great and sweet experiences as he takes hold of his independence and finds his own way, while in our hearts, we were mourning our own sense of loss in the change in our daily relationship with this boy.

Of course, little did we know that this experience of change, bitter-sweetness, and “minor” mourning would pale in comparison to what was to come as we said a final earthly good-bye to Daniel just eight months later.

In many ways, the mourning that we experienced with Daniel’s departure to college was superficial.  We were missing Daniel in our daily lives – having him around the house, at meals with us, laughing at his quirky humor, and engaging him and watching his interactions with his siblings and friends.

Our grief and mourning since his death goes much deeper.  Now we are not only missing the daily experience of Daniel, but we are missing what we assumed would be a lifetime of experiences that we would share with him.   We will not see him continue to flourish at Whitworth and then finish college; discover a calling and find his way into a career, perhaps in ministry through something like Young Life; hopefully have found his soul mate for life and married; and then, again, hopefully have had a wonderful life and family of his own to enjoy, invest himself in, and share with us. 

 
Our sense of loss now runs deep and lifelong.  The grief feels permanent and is treacherous.