We Need To Find Our New Story

I had this post written in my head, the thoughts and words just flowed as I stared out the window on the long drive home from a family funeral.

Folks may deny it, but many are uncomfortable around us, especially if they have not seen us for years, or not since Justin’s funeral…there is a bit of awkwardness, we do our best to engage people, smile…try to put people at ease. Then there are those who simply take your hands and aren’t afraid to see your pain, you can see it reflected back to you in their eyes, your souls touch for a moment and there is no need for words.

When easing into conversation, I always ask the other person about their children, it is a wonderful segue way into or out of a pause that has gone on too long. I want to hear about their children, what they are up too…are they well?…they are the next generation, help me to learn something about them. I was crushed inside when more than a few responses were of how parents couldn’t wait till their children left home, that they wish they would get out of the house…one in particular had the days counted till the youngest turned 18, and it was two years away.  I could see their lips moving, but in seconds I shut down, there was no further conversation to be had if I was to remain civil and observe the niceties of polite dialogue.  Inside I was screaming at them,  “Was your child’s heart beating when you left your house?”  And for a moment you are filled with a curious mix of pity and envy…pity for the life they have and are not celebrating, envy for the luxury and extraordinary blessing of bemoaning their children and their presence in their homes.  Envy for the reality that there is the potential for great stories, their lives aren’t over and perhaps if the parents would stop trashing them and recounting their faults in public, the children might have the courage to spread their wings and explore, or attend a family gathering, we all need to hear the good stories.

His was a great story and the sudden ending left us bereft.

I learned nothing about your children, I did not hear a single story of them, you told me nothing that I can take home and smile over or share. Do not expect me to engage you again in conversation, do not expect me to seek you out or desire to be in your company.  I will gravitate instead to those who are sharing stories of what their children are up too, what they have done, trips they have taken or going to take, tell me their stories.

Time is screaming by so fast, we are coming up on Justin being dead 19 months, it is like being caught in a current that is raging forward and your child stands on the shore, that place where their heart stopped beating and you are dragged further and further away from them. Our story with Justin stopped, we have no new stories of him, no more amusing tidbits from his life in South Dakota. No more pictures of the plains and big sky.  No more stories of the people he met, his students, his fellow grad students, Justin met the most amazing people and he would listen to their stories and then share them with us.  I miss his voice, his laughter…his was a great story and the sudden ending left us bereft, his was a story that I did not want to end. No preparation for the end, no good bye, no last “I love you.”

It is called grief work, and it is hard and it is valid work.

I wish there was some way to convey what the second year feels like, I wish that somehow I could adequately express the exhaustion that hovers constantly. If I have been “good,” if I have showered, eaten, engaged in conversation, made decisions, paid bills…don’t continually ask more of me. We are sleep deprived, for me that is when the shadows descend. That is when you ask yourself, did he beat on the glass to get out of the car as he drowned?…why does the vision of his face pressed upon the car window hang in front of my eyes, a haunting visual from a nightmare of his death that lingers?  These are demons that take a lot of energy to battle and I am told with time they recede, but right now the mind needs to work it all out…needs to not shelve those questions, but to allow them out of their box where the mind can acknowledge them and put them to rest. It is called grief work, and it is hard and it is valid work, necessary work…it garners no paycheck, produces no tangible material proof of work…but it is valid.

…we need to find our  new story

We need to pick up our story line, there is restructuring that needs to be done…energy invested in adapting to our new story.  Our characters don’t fit back into our old story, we have to find a story that our characters fit into now.  Take a moment and mix your favorite characters up, put them in different stories…see how they don’t fit?…their clothes are all wrong and their speech jarring…the story does not make sense now…they need to find their proper story to be meaningful…we need to find our  new story.

 “First, I do not sit down at my desk to put into verse something that is already clear in my mind. If it were clear in my mind, I should have no incentive or need to write about it. We do not write in order to be understood; we write in order to understand.”
― C.S. Lewis