The Four Paths

I spoke to my friend today. Someone from the funeral home brought her son's ashes to her. I'm trying to do as my blog says--be the living art created to help others. I told her that she has to choose her path. At the time, I told her she has three choices, but after thinking a bit, I believe there are actually four paths that a grieving parent (person?) can choose.

The first is to live in grief. You can lock yourself up in your child's room with her belongings, trying to relive every memory. This can unfortunately mean that you will also live in the past, and with the dead rather than the living.

The second path is down the middle of the road. You live neither in grief nor do you move forward, but rather tread the line, unable to let go of the past and unable to open your eyes to the future. I would tend to think that many grieving parents choose this path. In most cases, you have no choice but to participate in some parts of life. You go to work, see your friends, raise your children, but live in the shadow of grief. It hangs over you, making everything dark and cold.

The third path is, I believe, the one I've chosen, the one I chose within days of losing my daughter. Someone around me said that everything would always be sad because I would always be missing my daughter, through every milestone and happy occasion. This upset me--I didn't want my daughter (and now my son) to ever feel the shadow that was weighing on me at the time. I decided then and there to do my best to never let the shadow cover her. Over the past two years, I think I've finally found my way out from under the shadow as well.

The fourth path is, surprisingly, the scariest to me. On this road, you run away from the shadow. You give away your child's clothing, toys, and anything else that might remind you of her. You stop talking about her, don't let yourself cry, and try to live as though nothing ever happened. I don't personally know anyone who's chosen this path, but I have heard that a lot of grandparents do some of these things. Maybe they think it's easier on their children if they pretend the grandchild never died? Maybe they're trying to be strong by not thinking about it? I don't know, but I would tend to believe that these people have serious problems later on, having never allowed themselves to grieve, and carrying all the bottled up feelings and memories around with them forever.

As I've said before, I do believe the path you walk is a choice. But what makes a person choose one path over another can vary. Who do you have around you? What's happened to you before now? When tragedy knocks you down, do you look up or do you sit there in shock? I personally feel that if I hadn't had people around me constantly telling me to get up, that I was strong and could get through this, I might have chosen the 2nd path.

The other thing I think has been helpful is realizing that life is messy, it's a series of opposites that live beside each other. Dark and light, happy and sad, good and evil are all with us. Some of us don't experience them in extremes, but we have to accept that life isn't just all one or the other.

If you are a grieving parent, know you're not alone. There are others walking on the path (whichever you choose) ahead of you and you can do it too. Sometimes it's just one step a day, sometimes it's two steps back, but if you stay on the path you will eventually move forward.

Not again

A longtime friend of my dad's sent me a card after my daughter passed away. With it, he enclosed a story about a woman whose son dies. Enveloped in grief, she asks Buddha to bring him back. He tells her that if she can bring him a grain of rice from a household who has not lost a loved one, he will help her. She goes from house to house, but cannot find anyone who hasn't lost a loved one.

The story, like this blog, is, I assume, meant to reassure those of us who've lost loved ones that we're not alone. It's been running through my head for the past few days. On Wednesday evening, October 12, one of my best friends called to tell me her family had been in an accident and she'd lost her son. This woman was the 2nd one at my house (would've been first if she lived closer) and has been there for me every minute of every day since then.

Today, she is at the hospital where her daughter is recovering. I know when she comes home, she'll be hit with her son's death full force. I'm trying to be there for her as much as I can. After 5 days, I'm completely exhausted. I wonder if I'm more exhausted than the others who are here to help. Seeing her, talking to her does bring back lots of memories I wanted to leave behind. At times, I put myself back in time so I can remember how I felt and know what to say to her. I think that must be taking its toll, probably differently for me than for the others who are with us.

The one good thing I can say is that it's been enough time that I can be there. Until recently, I don't know that I could have gone to the hospital, sat with her daughter while she left the room for a while, held her hand while she cried, or even seen her tired, sad eyes. Somehow, I'm able to remember just enough and then stop.

I remember the pastor who performed my daughter's service saying it's not God's will that a child die, that God's will is in those who come to help. To my dear friend, I can only hope I'm carrying out God's will in some way that helps you.