You're Lucky You Don't Have a Son

I love family celebrations and fortunately there have been many, of late. Three birthday parties (including a milestone one for my 90-year-old father-in-law), as well as meals shared over Easter weekend. And coming up, a get-together for Mother's Day. After any family event, I always experience the inevitable emotional letdown of missing my son more acutely, but thankfully, the intensity of this feeling usually dissipates by morning.

Today, however, there are still lingering effects from a celebration that took place over a week ago, due to a comment an extended family member directed at my husband that evening. The words continue to reverberate in my mind, triggering this ache in my heart: "You're lucky you don't have a son." This, from someone who had known Michael. Obviously, it was an off-the-cuff comment; this person certainly did not intend to cause any pain. Still, it is difficult to understand how he could forget that we had had a son. Maybe it occurred to him later, maybe not. Upon reflection, there is the off chance that he hadn't forgotten, but neglected to consider the consequences his words might have. The impact this comment had on my husband and me was twofold: one, the shock upon hearing the words themselves, then the resulting pain, and two, recognizing the stark contrast between these two realities. My husband and I live with this profound loss every single day and yet, for this person, it appears that our son has slipped completely off the radar. And so, it goes. The learning continues.

Peeling Back the Layers

Last week's yoga class left me feeling quite undone.  Rather than returning home in the usual state of gratitude and contentment, I encountered a crushingly difficult, grief-filled evening instead.  That overwhelming sense of loss dominated much of the following day as well.  This was a first - yoga had never had that affect on me.  Upon reflection, I realized that my grief had been triggered by the teacher's suggestion that we each set an intention for class.  After some deliberation, I had silently asked for a hug from Michael.  Of course, my rational mind knew that was physically impossible.  However, another part of me entertained the notion that the hug may come in the form of spirit connection.  Alas, in Savasana pose at the end of the class, I recognized that neither had occurred, and the tears flowed.  I was again reminded that a physical hug from my son would never occur. Obviously this was not new information, so what was going on?  Why such an intense response?  Perhaps it was the perfect time for me to access yet another layer of grief.  My mind, body, and soul were in that deeply connected state of existence, allowing for further penetration of reality. Peeling back the layers.  Like in the onion analogy often referred to with regards to personal growth.  I wonder how many layers this onion has. 

Moving On?

Moving on.  Well-meaning individuals tossing versions of this phrase into conversations.  With regards to grieving the death of my son.  "I'm glad to see you're moving on."  Implying leaving something behind.  As if putting it somewhere in the past is the answer.  Not relating to that concept at all.  Not moving anywhere.  Living with it.  Choosing to be in the present as much as possible.  Experiencing what is, right now. Extremely sad that Michael is gone.  Beyond description.  Living with that reality.  This not something that can change.  At the same time, loving the presence of my granddaughter.  Lucky enough to be kissing and holding her often.  Appreciating that immensely.  Grief and joy co-existing daily.  One not precluding the other.  Moving on?  Not part of the equation.

Forever

Gazing up at the large photo perched upon the shelf.  A carefree image of Michael hamming it up with his friends.  Finding myself once again ruminating on the concept of forever.  Initially viewing it from the purely physical perspective.  Contemplating the reality of him never sitting here on the sofa with me again.  It takes my breath away.  Then purposefully redirecting my thinking.  Flipping it over.  Turning it around.  Focusing on the understanding that his essence exists eternally.  Enabling me to resume breathing comfortably once again.

The Anniversary of My Mother's Passing

Sunday will mark the ninth anniversary of my mother's passing.  She lived with leukemia for twenty five years, staying so positive and strong until those last few weeks when the cancer had progressed to her brain.  About ten days before she passed, I was talking to her about dying, letting her know that it was alright to now have her God take charge, and that it was not a sign of weakness for her to let go. As a lifelong Catholic, her belief system included Heaven and Hell, and she was now crying with fear, convinced that she was destined for the latter.  Of all the people in my life, she would be the last one to get sent there. To comfort her, I shared a story that to this day, don't really know where it came from.  There was a feeling that the words coming through me were not of my own creation.  I explained that as a fetus she had been safe and warm in her mother's womb, content with every need being met.  I told her that if someone had asked if she was looking forward to being born and leaving that secure place for an unknown environment, that she would likely have answered in the negative.  I went on to remind her that if she had not left that womb, she would have missed out on all this life had to offer. The experience of dying is the same as that of being born, moving from one reality to another. Who knew what rich experiences awaited her on the other side. Once I had finished the story, she calmed down and became very peaceful.  I know that she is in her Heaven and continues to guide me here on Earth.