When Allison died, Jim was working with a man who had also buried a little girl. I knew just a few details of her death. . . she was three and had died about 10 years earlier in a traffic accident. We had a somewhat casual relationship with this couple; outside of Jim's office, we only saw them occasionally at chapel or at military social functions. But, after Allison's death, I expected all that to change. I anticipated that the wife would choose to walk alongside me, to comfort me, and to share her words of wisdom with me. Obviously, she had survived those years since her daughter had died, a feat I could not personally even conceive of doing, and I longed for her to teach me how to live again. I wanted her to speak words of peace and comfort, bring encouragement to my wounded spirit, and answer my questions about simply making it through each day.
I was wrong.
Actually, I don't know if Jim had any heartfelt conversations on grief with the husband, but I never had any with the wife. We continued to see each other socially, shared polite and courteous exchanges, and I gradually grew more and more resentful. And, the resentment evolved into a deep anger that uncomfortably leaked out during those required, but brief, social interchanges.
I'm sorry. Now, twenty years later, I finally realize what you knew then. . . .there are no magic words of comfort, there's no 'how to' guide filled with all the right things to say and do, and nothing takes away the raw intense pain of new grief. I realize now the struggle you were going through as the death of my little girl must have brought new waves of sadness and loss into your own life. I'm so sorry that I didn't see the anguish my presence must have brought you. I'm so sorry for expecting the impossible from you.
As the years have passed, I have become the woman who grieved and survived. I have become the one who persevered through unspeakable loss. And I have become the one who has let others grieve silently, wondering 'why isn't she here? why isn't she walking alongside me?' I could give lots of reasons . . fear, too busy, selfish . . but, in the end, I have no excuse. Yes, I've buried a child, and I've learned so much in the years since. . . but, faced with another's grief, I still don't know what to say or do to ease the pain.
But, maybe that's the point. . . it's not about 'saying' or 'doing'. . .it's about being.
Joni, Your words are so true. Losing my husband and surviving three years past it did not bring me any magic words or guide on how to bring comfort. Not to someone else and not even to myself. The pain can be just as raw and intense as day one sometimes. I choose to live. That's the best I can do.
ReplyDeleteI remember sitting in Zio's with you when you first told me about Allison. Because my appointment with grief was several years away, I had no idea what to say. I think I said something stupid. At any rate, here I am saying "I'm sorry" to you. You have been a good friend to me.
ReplyDelete