Wow. What a
week. Incorporating changes at the rate
of 0 to 60; euphoria, sorrow, delight, sadness, sentiments long forgotten, new
opportunities, profound confusion, and crystal clarity have been the order of
the week.
This is the anniversary week of when my son died. Two years on Valentine’s Day. I am alternately forever sad and delighted
that his passing is marked by this day.
Most of you have heard the details before, but this day prior to his
death already was special, full of memories, most wonderful, some very
sad. This was my father’s birthday. My dad was a relatively quiet man, who was a
tall, strong model, always professional, very talented, with a quick, dry wit
and a bottomless pit of a heart for his family.
I never, EVER doubted his love for us, or the security of feeling safe
with him there. He adored us and it was
mutual. My father also struggled
mightily, to the surprise of many, with his own confidence and self esteem. I would never have realized that when I was
young. It was only after he was alone, a
widower, that I understood the depths of his struggles. I relate more than I ever thought I would, or
would want to, now. But I was proud that
a man who loved us so fiercely had been a Valentine baby. It just seemed to make sense to me.
My grandfather was buried on Valentine’s Day. A sad occasion, to be sure, but somehow our
family found comfort in benchmarking the occasion on a day for love.
My son went to heaven on Valentine’s Day. I suppose, if you follow my way of thinking
by now, if he was going to go, this was the perfect day for him to make his
entrance to eternal love. I remember so
clearly, two years ago, February 14, 2015, a Saturday morning, just three
months and two days after I lost my dear husband to pneumonia. I was feeling sorry for myself, for being
alone on this day marked for lovers. I
was missing him desperately, and everywhere I turned Hallmark, and every other
merchant had plastered hearts, flowers and couples lost in each other’s eyes
everywhere I turned. I watched coworkers
get flowers, I saw posts of tokens of love and sweet messages on Face book. And I was at home alone, having my very own
pity party, table for one. I finally
pulled myself together and decided that I was being ridiculous and that it was
time to pull up my bootstraps and rejoice in the love that I had had with
someone who I never thought I would find; someone I never dreamed could love me
on a par beyond which I had ever known possible, and make me feel totally loved
and secure. But I had and I knew that
many go through life never achieving that and that I was being selfish in my
attitude. So I put on a smile and didn’t
know what I was going to do, but that I was going to make it a good day.
Then the phone rang. And
in what felt like slow motion, I experienced a pain that cannot be described; surreal,
acute, deep, throbbing, wrenching, and complete. I know I cried out. I don’t think it was a noise I had ever made
before. It came from right inside the
sanctuary of my heart, where those I love are locked securely inside. I am told it was a sound like no other, as
the pain that was never to have occurred in any parents life took hold. Almost immediately, I became absorbed in a
state of shock, as if I was shrouded in a giant cocoon that allowed me to be
mobile, to speak, to respond. It was
like the first dressing on a very severe wound, in that it provided some safety
and protection but it couldn’t stop all of the pain. I wore that cocoon for a good year. I have been shedding it bit by bit for about
a year now. When I think it is almost gone,
I still find a piece of it tucked somewhere that I hadn’t looked since that
day. It’s like a scab. Do you pick it off or let it heal and fall
off itself. I’ve done both and don’t
know that there’s a difference.
I was told that the second year is the hardest. That was from people who had only experienced
one loss. And now I’m juggling two. When that cocoon of shock wears away, and the
scabs are fading and leaving scars, you realize that this is fresh new
skin. It is extremely sensitive and has
to still be protected. Anything too
harsh, like direct sunlight will burn and scar you. So goes recovery. New skin with new sensitivities, and all the
while you thought when you got through your healing, everything would be
normal. But it’s not. Logically it’s impossible, for you are
changed. You are scarred, you live a
totally different life. I’m not saying
that it can’t be a good life. I’m just
saying that it’s a startling realization that you can’t go back to what it was,
for what it was no longer exists.
And who likes change?
Really. Changing the furniture,
the sheets, your clothes all are good things.
Changing how you operate in your life, how you cope, who you turn to,
who you trust, who you thought you knew to be allies, and learning to lean on
others when all you want is your own independence is not fun. What you really want is for everything to be
the way it was.
I have learned to do and handle many things over the past
two years that I hadn’t had to do with the luxury of a loving husband. I take pride in that. I have learned to ask for help
occasionally. It’s hard, but it’s
okay. People want to help. I am learning to let them. I am working to do this with as much optimism
and determination as possible. I am on
paper, independent (not financially, otherwise I would be living at the lake). Some are even fooled into thinking I am
strong. The reality is, there are days,
when you are living alone, sleeping alone, waking up alone, that the loneliness
overcomes the best of us. Make no
mistake; I have more loving family and friends than I knew and they make a huge
difference. But sometimes you need to be
folded into someone’s arms who is your first person in your life and you are theirs. You want a kiss on the forehead, and a hand
to hold.
This year on Valentine’s Day, while the déjà vu of two years
past did manifest, I tried to focus on what I have to be thankful for. First was Chad, a wonderful son, husband and
father who I love beyond life. There are
my sisters and their families, my daughters-in-law, grandchildren, extended
family and friends. And surprisingly,
and extraordinarily touching, was hearing from Marines who served with Adam;
some of which I know and some I’d never met.
And after two years they were still thinking of their brother in arms,
remembering him, spot on in their descriptions of who he was. What brought me to my knees was how well they
knew him, how they ache at losing him just as I and others do. They reached out and included me into a very
special circle, in being respectful to the mother of their brother, their
friend. They made me smile through tears
as they captured the very essence of who my son was. I loved that they knew him so well.
The list of what I have to be grateful for is long. And one of the most important items on the list is that I have been loved well. But at the end of the day, I realize the
cocoon is slipping away from that other place that I didn’t realize that would
still be so vulnerable. That is the
yearning for company; for companionship; maybe for another love.
When you’ve known unconditional love from someone who was a
friend, partner, love and rock, finding that again is not as simple as it might
seem. It might be easier if I were
younger. It might be easier if I were
more fit. It might be easier if I knew
where to go to meet someone. And the
problem is that it can’t be just anyone.
It will need to be at least “someone”, which of course you understand
what that means! Someone who understands
how much more there is to life than an online dating profile. Someone else who knows the value of a true
friendship, who understands that life is not what we thought it was going to be
when we were younger; that has the wisdom of experience and the perspective
that life experience brings. I’m less
interested in looks and more interested in someone’s heart and mind. Oh!
And a lake house would be good!
Laugh with me, a girl can dream, right?
Beautiful! You go, dragonfly girl :)
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