A funny thing happens when people die. The world goes on, spinning in its predictable way, bosses to answer to and dentist appointments to keep. Those who survive are left with innumerable memories, the ones of him trying his best to teach you whiffle ball, the ones of a family dinner that left you crying and mute. It’s odd, because a portion of your time seems to halt, while he continues to exist in your everyday, just as sure as if he was there in flesh. His glasses. His empty chair. His penmanship, the signature you’ll never forget. The abundant sympathy cards at first pour through the mail slot, piling up unopened on the kitchen counter. But the lovely, awkward gestures of sympathy eventually stop. Egg shells become glass shards. Others seem to fear mentioning his name. Yet you’re still there, quicksand up to your knees. The grief isn’t as tangible, doesn’t sting like new cuts do, but the tears still pour out of the clear blue. They still do, and for me it’s been 15 months.
My friend Shana lost her three-month old baby boy a little over one week ago. Nine days. Nine days isn’t time enough to grow a decent mustache, for new milk to sour. It’s hard to imagine what she’s going through right now, hard even to attempt to imagine. Pain, tears, ache, loss. Resolve, courage. Fear. Acceptance? Single emotions at times, at others a confusing cocktail, a hateful Pollock of inconsistency and unpredictability. One thing is for certain: there is no sense to make of it. Amazing that when it happens to someone you care about, you want nothing more than to flip the hourglass, to erase each offending smudge.
Wishing I could ease your pain right now, Shana.
Read about her beloved little man here, and learn how you can help.
15 Comments
This is beautifully written, it captures those emotions perfectly. My condolences…to both of you…
What a difficult time your friend, and you, must be going through! My heart goes out to you both!
Death is such a strange enigma in life; everything else we do is about existing, continuing, moving forward, accomplishing — death is the end of *everything*. Sure, you can quit a job, and that’s the end of that particular job, but you move onwards — and it might be a career move. You’re still going onwards. Death is so final; the last clean cut from all futures.
I have not known Shana except a few days before her tragedy, having found her blog by some means or another, but I am struck to the core at her tragedy. My own little one I cannot imagine losing; I fail to see how she can even move let alone continue on. I wish her and her family strength and healing and comfort, wherever that may be found.
And to you, Kris…the problem with death is that nobody likes to dwell on it, unless it’s near to them, so we forget about those who still see the ghosts in the mirrors and hear the footsteps in the empty halls. For those times we’ve forgotten your pain, I’m ever so sorry, and I offer you the same wishes for comfort and good memories and happy remembrances, and knowing that we as friends are always with you, even if we sometimes forget to be.
Oh dear Lord. Shana’s son’s birthday is the day after my youngest – when I saw her due date, I commented on her blog and we exchanged an e-mail, then I checked back to see the happy news of the birth. My heart just aches for her. Thank you for the beautifully written message, Kris and for the heads up. My prayers are with Shana and her family. They are with you as well.
Amen.
Beautiful post.
What I find so odd is my office blocked it for maliciousness. This post could not be further than that.
absolutely beautiful.
This was an extraordinary post, Kris. Bravo. I know of what you speak and like the way it was expressed. I lost my younger sister 2 weeks ago. Everything you said I wish I could have expressed.
Peace to you and Shana
My father’s been dead for six years and I can still start crying in an instant, for no good reason, about him.
So much of life is about loss. We lose, all the time: friends, wealth, perky breasts, family, memories, time. Maybe that’s why we leave each other alone in grief; it’s just too hard to touch the knife that is also ours.
My grandmother died this past tuesday morning, and I couldn’t have said what I felt better if you had been speaking directly to me.
I’m worried about how to talk to grandpa, what to say, when to say it, how to say goodbye to him when I leave, when we all leave. How do you live in a house after your spouse of 60 years has died? How do you move out? What do you do with 60 years of love, life, memories, fights, children, jobs, good times and bad times?
I don’t have a way to end this comment. I have nothing witty or insightful to add. Just sadness.
That first paragraph will be a constant reminder to KEEP being there for her.
Beautiful words, as always…
I have quite a few friends ask what they can do for me. Bring food, watch the kids, run errands for me. My answer is and continues to be: please remember me in a month, 6 months, a year’s time. This is when you can truly help. Like you, there are constant reminders that no pound cake or sympathy card can erase or take away.
love you!
Should this count when the person in question is a 91 year old grandparent? Because suddenly, this week, it seems to count for me. This woman taught me to read, guided my earliest steps and loved me unconditionally. I don’t really care at this moment that she had a great life and a great marriage and is ready to go. All I know is my grandma is going. And I’m not ready.
Yes, it’s when everyone has gone home and they have all started living their lives once again that it really hits. When all the casseroles and well meaning whatevers have reached their best used by dates that’s when you wish for a well meaning anything, and wish more than ever that you could pull yourself out of it, and at the same time you don’t want to get pulled out for fear you will start to live and forget the one who is no longer there.
But that’s kind of what has to happen. Even if you have to do it while kicking and screaming.
I spent the last week trying to understand and mourn the loss of a dear friend’s daughter.
And five years after my mother’s unexpected death, I’m still trying to understand and mourn.
It simply sucks.