Caught Unaware, The Year of Thirds

A tsunami is invisible on the surface, barely a noticeable ripple, yet beneath the surface it is gathering force with a speed that is hardly fathomable.  Seconds before it hits there is a calm that is eerie, luring those close into a false serenity. Impact. No where to run, no where to hide, pounding water, debris, choking breath.  A grief tsunami. Triggered by an anniversary that the heart never forgets. The year of thirds is no easier, harder in many ways. If our child was alive and we had not seen him for three years, people would be quick to say how eager we must be to see him, how much we must miss him, how hard it must be to be separated for so long.  Yet, when your child dies, three years is met with “it must be easier”, “its time for you to move on”, “you shouldn’t be still actively grieving”, never an acknowledgement of the length of the absence.  Odd.

There is a big smiley face on August 7th on the 2010 calendar.  Justin came home from South Dakota for a blindingly fast visit.  He was tired, pale, shoulders so thin again. He was hopeful that this was his last semester at grad school and was working on his thesis. He had worked all summer at the university, so careful that he fulfilled the promised hours to his project. We had hoped that he would have been able to take more of a break, but he was so sensitive to completing his committed hours.  We admired and respected his integrity. It was such a quick visit. He feet were in spasms from running to catch a bus to get to the airport in Omaha, so that he could catch a plane to Maryland. His car was in the shop and we were grateful that he had made every effort to get home. I don’t even have any pictures from that visit. I just remember his last hug.  The fresh scent that was uniquely his, those boney shoulders. He was dead exactly six weeks later.

Strange tsunami that draws keening animal cries from my heart. Racking pain that you thought you would not feel again, exhausting, defeating, draining. And there is nothing for it but to go through it.  Tears that will not stop, tell-tale swollen eyes, raw throat, the unseen aftermath of the tsunami.

Lazy summer sounds, dusk that falls earlier, humidity like a stifling robe, triggers, all triggers. So much to learn. We were only born into this grief three years ago. In many ways, we have to revisit those cognitive development steps all over again, learn new language skills, integrate our autonomy with the new person that was born when our child died.  Morphing from toddlerhood to childhood, all the while masquerading as an adult.

A three year old begins to develop a sense of purpose.  As the water recedes, and more of life’s illusions are swept away, there glimmers a sense of purpose.  So like the seashell that catches your eye and is taken out with the ocean, and tumbles forth again with the next wave, elusive, you know you saw it.  You either wait at the edge of the water, the same water that brought grief to your house, or you enter into the water, risk submersion to find that shell, your purpose.

My heart and body long for the sea, to sit at its edge, to breathe the air charged with energy, to collect shells, to dare myself to dive under the wave, to trust that I will not drown on neither the salt water of the ocean, or of my tears. To wait and see what the next wave reveals.