https://livingwellwithillness.com/wp-content/uploads/2020/09/bird.jpg 1200 791 T Boyle https://livingwellwithillness.com/wp-content/uploads/2017/12/header-gabriola.png T Boyle2020-09-09 20:55:462020-09-09 21:35:34i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)
i carry your heart with me(i carry it in my heart)i am never without it (anywhere i go) E. E. Cummings
Life brings everything –
and this year there has been more than a fair share of angst and suffering, around the globe, or so it seems. Some of this suffering is personal to each of us. I don’t refer to my Mother here. She was one of the lucky ones to live a long, healthy and meaningful life and she had the gift of dying before her children. There are friends and readers of this blog who are suffering the unspeakable. Pain that no words can heal. They don’t know what to do except to just stumble along. There is no solace; no combination of letters and words that bring relief. Diagnosis without a treatment plan is frightening. Death, out of the blue, is a whole other matter. When it comes suddenly and unexpectedly and not by accident, we are confused. And when that person is our young, adult child, we would prefer to be the one who died. The last breath! There must be some mistake.
Consolation is impossible –
And no matter how accomplished, or enlightened or stoic we might be, we are not able to reconcile what just happened. We eventually will learn to live with the pain and loss but we are never the same. We never forget. Their absence is front and centre like never before.
And the loving friends who gather round throw themselves into the snowbank with us, because, what else can be done. There are others who will make the dinner and clean up the dishes. They too are there when our world collapses. And the others who can hold the pain with us, and understand they aren’t needed to try and make things better, but to help hold up the sky. They are there to provide cover and a safe place to land when we collapse. To walk with us. To listen. To weep and never to use the words “at least.”
Maybe it is like learning a new language –
Small steps. Simple words. We learn to walk and talk again. Until the day comes when we once again catch a whiff of the eucalyptus tree or strain our ears to hear the trill of a songbird. Until that day comes we will simply keep each other company through the desert.
And we understand in a whole new way what suffering is. And how we must pay attention and never miss a moment to say thanks, or, I love you, while we can. And for all the pain and loss in my own life I have no way of knowing what it is really like to suddenly lose an adult child. I only know the impact on me, not the impact on my friend. I am writing about myself now, hoping in some way to express my deep sorrow for my friend’s anguish. And the anguish of all those who have suddenly and with no known reason lost their beloved child at an age too young for us to fathom.
I do have a reason for hope, to which I cling –
Why? Because I have experienced it’s return again and again, and in its own time. I have also seen it in the lives of others. And even though we all know this, for the one whose heart is broken beyond repair, this is not yet imaginable. So, we get to silently and quietly imagine hope for them: in our hearts, our thoughts and in what some of us call prayers.
All of us have been touched by death, by illness and by pain, in one form or another. The blessing is that we are not alone. May we all have the strength, courage and love to see each other through and to rise again, against all the odds.
With sorrow, love and gratitude to you all,