On the Edge

 Sometimes tears still take me by surprise, but I look back at the full ferocity of my grief after my son’s death as if someone other than myself went though it. I remember it, but it’s as if it happened to me while I was visiting another country. In those awful first days, I stood on the edge of a giant abyss looking down into the dark, bottomless depths.   Teetering on the edge, I knew I could easily step forward and allow the blackness to swallow me whole. People would understand. Heads would nod as even the most optimistic of my friends would acknowledge that losing a child could be enough to make anyone stop their journey not able to go on. Get off the proverbial bus.
Early on, I leaned over the abyss and longed for the blackness and cold. And I knew that if I allowed myself to fall in, I would never get out again.   For a long time I stood statue-like, cold as marble, looking into the pit, feeling nothing. An un-whole person. Aching. Not well.
And then one day, I took a step back away from the edge.   I don’t know what made me take this small step. Maybe it was simply the fact that I could. And I was comforted knowing the abyss still yawned, like a hippo’s mouth, a foot step away and there for me if I needed it. I could change my mind and take two steps forward. If I wanted to.
Time passed. Life was going on around me whether I liked it or not. I stood my ground feeling as if I were frozen to that spot. And then one day, the call of the abyss was less strong. I took another step away from the gaping, black hole. And stood. And waited never knowing what it was I was waiting for. Still having many bad days. In color.
Four years into life without my son, I know exactly where the abyss is. Over there. I can see it and still go there though not as often. It has become a part of my personal geography and I will always know how to find my way back to it. The difference between now and the earlier years is that I can choose to back away when I’ve decided I’ve been rooted there too long. Move toward something else. I can also return when necessary and peer into the blackness letting my tears blind. Feeling the hole in my heart. While the abyss remains, where I am in relation to it is, and always will be, my choice.
After a loved one’s death, the news of someone else’s bereavement is something different than before. It hangs heavier. I feel my tears well, a remembering, an empathy that rings deep blue. I’ve stood by the abyss and I know its depth and pull. In that connection, there’s a temptation to be the ‘been there, done that’ person, to talk rather than listen, to forget that every loss is different.
I hope I’ve learned to listen more now. To try and put myself into someone else’s shoes (as if that were possible). And only share my thoughts if asked. Recollect what it was like as I first stood on the edge of the abyss so alone and sad and wondering what it would be like if I let myself fall. If asked, here is what I’d say to someone who’s loved and lost a child:
I wish I could spare you.  
Feel what you will and be damned with anyone who tells you otherwise.
When you can’t bear another day, just get through an hour. If that’s too long, make it through a minute. Time will pass. Just hold on and hang on until it does.
When you know what might help you feel a little better, ask for it, even if it is a glass of wine, or a movie, or baying at the moon. There are probably people who are desperate to be there for you with no clue what to do. Make it easier for them, so that it can be easier for you.
Be gentle with yourself: snivel when you need to, sleep when it takes you, eat so you still have strength left to scream and throw things if that’s what you want.
There may be times when grief feels like a part you have to play, without knowing your lines or rehearsing. You’ll meet others who play their part while sympathizing. But being real about what you feel might just be the bravest thing you ever do, even if it raises eyebrows. Or becomes grist for the mill. A cliché. You might just find you’re someone inspirational, maybe even more than you were before.
Take happiness when it comes. Accept the little joys like windfalls in the tempest and enjoy the breeze. If you’re lucky enough to have a dog, tell her everything and let her lick away your tears. Dogs know.
Laughter comes at the strangest moments. I hope you have a sister or close friend with whom you laugh. The giddy bubbles can feel a bit too close to madness but they heal, purge, purify, and life is still life – silly, unfair, messy, funny.
You may feel a little nuts at times. Other people around you may also be going quietly (or not so quietly) crazy. You may even be doing it all out sync with one another and making each other even crazier. Take deep breaths; try to forgive as much as you would like to be forgiven. And early on, have a gatekeeper for well-intentioned visitors you’d rather not see.
You are not on your own. You may feel it but you’re not. Promise.
The dead don’t need to be perfect. Remember the person you loved for who they were.
There is no compliment in mourning forever. Repeat that and keep going. Keep moving on.
You won’t believe me (I wouldn’t have believed you), but there are gifts that can come to you out of your loss. Try and be open to receive them.
Understand that this is both an end and a beginning. It will be what it needs to be.
 
“Life is not about avoiding the storm, it’s about learning to dance in the rain.” A profound quote I found somewhere along the way. So keep dancing with your face up to feel the rain.   And if you dance too close to the edge, just make sure there’s a light to help you back to safety.