Grief Is Sneaky

Grief is sneaky. When I least suspect it, there it is.

We were on our way to the beach the other day for a couple of days of relaxation. It was a much anticipated trip over the weekend of our 11th anniversary, and I was looking forward to a nice break in the routine.

The day before the trip, we got most of the preparations made. The morning we left, we woke up early, eager to get started. Once we were on the road, Grief caught up with me.

Maybe it was the break in the routine that did it. I think that once my mind began to rest, it started to process feelings and memories that had been lying dormant.

There they were, memories of our Liza Jane, flashbacks of some of the best moments of her life. (At least this time the images invading my mind were of the good days... not the bad days.)

In addition to the memories, I has a sudden flood of the "what if she were here?" kinds of thoughts. What would this seaside break be like if our Liza was with us? What would be the same, what would be different?

Once Grief and the memories begin to invade, it is very hard to continue as before. It is as if a giant mountain has arisen in the path ahead and there is no way around it -- the only choice is a slow, arduous climb until at last the summit is reached and I can begin the descent down the other side.

This time, though, I was able to accelerate the climb a little bit. I did this by opening my mouth and sharing with my husband, who was riding along beside me, everything that kept running through my mind. I don't always have the luxury of immediately sharing my thoughts with someone close to me, but in this case it was nice to have a captive audience, and it was really therapeutic.

To my relief, acknowledging the memories and the questions seemed to give them freedom. It allowed the images and feelings to take wings, almost, and continue on their way.

I'm sure a lot of this has to do with the fact that we're now a solid year and a half past the date our daughter died. It is a relief that sometimes when Grief sneaks up, it is no longer here to stay for days and days. Sometimes, now, it passes more quickly, like a song that finishes on a resolving note sooner than expected.

This doesn't diminish my love for my daughter, or how painfully I still miss her.

I am thankful, though, that the painful feelings are lingering less, and that I am able to spend more time in rest and joy.

We Go On

This weekend we had the privilege of interacting with some members of another family who lost a child recently. Their loss was under much different circumstances, but there are similarities in the way we moms and dads feel.

After conversing for a few minutes about our experiences of sorrow and pain, we both moved on to other activities at the picnic we were attending. Times of grief flow into motion, a choice to continue and to participate in life.

And so we go on.

The alternative to going on is to simply stop. It is tempting sometimes when the heart wrenching reality of the gaping hole is yawning within us. When a child is lost, there is an empty space in our lives that refuses to be filled.

But... stopping living, breathing, experiencing life is not an option. Choosing not to live, not to embrace life despite the pain, is the same as choosing to die.

Our children would not want that for us.

So we continue. We pause, we remember, we reflect and feel. And then we gather our scattered heart strings from the four winds and we put one foot in front of the other and choose to live.

This is how we go on.

The view from our seats at an outdoor concert the other weekend. One of the many ways that we choose to go on without our daughter. It was a gorgeous day.

Choosing a Happy Ending

I have heard it said that "life is what happens when you're trying to get from Point A to Point B." This is so true. A strength of mine is being very goal oriented. I break life down into segments and projects that help me to achieve goals. In the process, though, I often lose the moments. I forget to look around me and appreciate the beauty of this day, this hour.

This is even more challenging sometimes in the realm of grief. A critical part of the grief process is remembering, looking back, thinking about that person and feeling the pain of his or her absence. For me, though, if I get stuck in that place for too long, I can miss hours or days of my life that is happening right here and now.

So it seems like another important part of the grief process is the way in which we move on. It's about striking a balance between reliving precious memories, and being able to enjoy the here and now.

How do we write the narrative of what happens in the "after" state, after the tragedy has passed? I think maybe this narrative happens in the small things, the every day moments that are built brick by brick into the structure that is our life story.

Looking forward, and looking back.

Being intentional about making these moments meaningful, being intentional about finding meaning in the every day. Slowly over time, new and positive memories are built that begin to construct a path into the future. I can feel that walkway growing over time, and it is helping me to look forward.

It is also helping me to appreciate every stepping stone, every moment, as it is selected and laid into the path of life with care and appreciation.