With this post, I am back on track with my once-daily legacy writing entries after almost a month.
I didn’t get behind simply because of the eight days I didn’t post when Aaron died. Even after I eased myself back here with a Photo Friday picture and gentle-on-my-system posts about Jess, Lila, the dogs, there were days when I simply couldn’t string thoughts together, much less words. I couldn’t possibly delve into the past with my heart breaking over the present. Or it seemed almost callous: This terrible loss has happened, and I’m going to talk about…what? What wouldn’t be trivial and meaningless in the face of a tragedy that’s broken the hearts of people I love so profoundly?
I know those days are far, far from over. Anyone who has grieved knows how long the process is. Years. Grief eventually weaves itself into the rest of your life, a part of it, but not the dominant part. But in its infancy, grief gives you days when you just can’t…anything. You can go through motions of those things you have to do. I hear myself making mental lists: just get up, brush your teeth, take a shower, eat something, sit outside with the dogs, sweep the floor, read your email, cook dinner, answer the phone, go to the grocery store… Some days I can’t do even those things, beyond the ones I have to do, which mostly involve the dogs. The adults around here, even though they also are grieving, willingly deal with take-out and dusty floors. The dogs depend on me, and they don’t know grief. They know only the moment and the needs that have to be met, so they keep me tethered to a bit of normalcy.
A harder thing is to stay focused even on passive entertainment, like watching a show, reading a book, listening to a conversation. My mind wanders. Or worse, it locks on remembered words or images I wish I’d never had to see or hear, and suddenly I’ve read ten pages without having any idea what they said, or the show is over and I’m not sure what happened, or I try to catch up with what the people around me are saying and I can’t. My brain is in Austin, in Nevada, in Utah, in Ohio, in Alabama, in Indiana, tuned in to faraway hearts that are aching, hearts that are ever connected to mine by blood and by love.
So…
Two lessons my father taught me when he died.
The first… Kind words and actions will not fix or erase grief, nor should they. I mourn because I love. You can’t take away one without diminishing the power of the other. I would not give up love to spare myself grief. But kind words and actions do recognize and honor my loss and my love. In that way, they help connect and heal me. It’s been twenty-seven years since he died, and I still remember who sustained my family and me.
The second… The only way not to be paralyzed by my grief is to express it creatively. My father’s death and other events in my life at that time left me almost incapacitated. I was scheduled to take my Masters comps and was so removed from that process that I knew I couldn’t pass. During a two a.m. study session, I shoved my books aside and wrote a poem about my father. It didn’t matter whether it was a good or bad poem. It opened a mental door I’d been keeping locked; going through that door was my first step toward healing. Sadly, because I’m getting older, and because I’ve known people with diseases that ended their lives, I’ve used this lesson many times: processing my way through grief through creating something, whether it was cross-stitching, painting, sewing, shooting photos, making quilt panels…
And yes, writing. So that’s why I will keep coming back to this environment I created, my little corner of the Internet, because no matter what I talk about or what I say about it, it’s all an affirmation of a life and a family and a group of friends to whom and for whom I’m grateful every day.
ETA: Related post: Aaron Buchanan Cochrane
We, and I speak for a collective readership who love what you do here on this blog, (I know so, because I follow the comments), are so grateful for your words.
Thank you. And in case I haven’t said it–I love YOU. =)
and i love you too!
please accept my heartfelt condolences. may aaron’s memory be a blessing to all who knew him.
Thank you so very much.
Listening every day. And here whether you need me or not. Just sayin’.
I do need you–you always lift my spirit. Thank you.
I am sorry for your loss. When I saw on the news that Bee Gees Robin Gibb died just 1 month shy of 10 years since Sam died, both from the same cancer, it was like life and death all over again. I bring out the music. I made one remix CD when Sam died, and today it is mostly a celebration to me. I listen to it on planes, trains, automobiles, roller blades… except for the 2nd track with he ain’t heavy on it. By coincidence all those years ago, I included amongst a large array of mixes and others on that CD in 2002, a Bee Gees song, Alone. That was the year of 2 weddings, a funeral and a vacation, because *I* really, really needed it. ~hugs~
Thank you for the hugs. And thanks for the times you’ve shared your thoughts about Sam. You honor him with your memories.
In good times or bad times, we’ll always be here for you when you need us.
Because, we need you, too.
Thank you very much. Your kindness has been so appreciated, especially these last few weeks.
love and hugs to all of you. it hurts to love. But like you said, it is worth it.
Thank you. =)
I never know what to say at a time like this, especially when it is someone I only know via your writing, from everything I have read the world has lost a very thoughtful dear young man, and I know that your family must be feeling so much sorrow. Again, it’s hard to come up with something to say, even though I mean it “I’m thinking of you and your entire family” seem trite and just so expected, even if they are true. Still, it would hurt me to express them. I guess simple things are like that. So know that I am thinking of you, and everyone that loved Aaron.
It’s hard, I know, when words are where we’re most comfortable, to realize that sometimes they can’t express all we feel or do all we wish they could. But never feel like you’ve fallen short–your kindness is infinite, and I know you feel deeply for my family. Thank you.
Becky:
I have purposefully chosen not to write or to comment too quickly on the deep and abiding grief through which you now walk, and will be walking through for an extended and lengthy time. I know your friends and family have been there for you as you have been there for them.
The effort from my end is simple: not to offer spiritual platitudes or to white-wash over something terrible that is never supposed to happen. It happened, and now what is left is to cope and to try to make sense of something that makes no sense.
I know you have friends and family deep in matters spiritual (not exclusively Christian) who are walking with you. I, as a Christian, have been been praying for you, David, Lisa, and all who are affected by the horrible circumstance that has stormed the beaches of your lives.
I will write you in the not too distant future, personally and privately via email, to share some thoughts and insights I have gained over the 34 years I have been a “minister” in general who knows grief and one who seeks to minister to those in grief.
There will be no platitudes except the one I have have found over and again to be true all my life, a quote from a beloved writer/pastor, Frederick Buechner, whom I have quoted previously to you who said, “The resurrection means that the worst thing is never the last thing.”
I am a Christian. That is my bias, my faith, and my credo. I am so sorry for your loss and the loss to those you love. I have a grandfather and a grand-father-in-law, each who took his own life; and you and I share in the circumstance of the death of a mutual, close, and deeply loved friend who, in essence, put his own life in harm’s way.
Please know that I love you now as I loved you so many years ago, though I probably would not have called it “love” then. I claim it now as rite of a friendship I believe to be deep and true. I will write soon; not to offer trite and meaningless slogans, but simply to share as one grieving human being to another.
I am so sorry that you have had to surrender, yet again, from this life someone about whom you deeply care. It certainly never gets easier. Still, you are loved and “hovered over” by me and so many others whose lives you have touched with your own ministry of care, compassion, passion, and love. Feel their presence and their sustenance and allow them to care for you as you have so generously and greedily cared for them.
Jim
I have known, from the day I heard this news, that you are there, understanding the complex emotions involved. There’s so much we can say, and maybe will say, in the months ahead. But I believe with all my heart that each time Aaron’s family, friends, and I breathe through another wave of pain, each time we find the beauty in a moment or a memory, each time we celebrate Aaron even as we mourn him, it’s because you and others have thought of us with compassion, have said a prayer, have sent your love. Thank you.
If I have learned anything it is that words are never enough, and that’s okay. But damn, you do know how to say the truth.
Thank you.
I’m sorry for your family’s loss. I can’t imagine losing someone so early in his life. Yes, that’s what I’ve found too, that grief weaves itself into our everyday life and becomes part of us. But in the beginning it is VERY hard.
My condolences.
Thank you very much, Angie.
I really don’t what to say except that I’ve been thinking about you since I read your blog a week ago. I went through some scares with a close friend about ten years ago and I still keep in touch regularly. Bless you and your family, Becky.
Thank you so very much. It helps me to feel supported by so many kind friends, and I know my family appreciates it, too.
Such a special post. Thinking of you. xx
Thank you so much.
I feel honoured to be allowed into this little corner of the internet. Thank you for sharing your heart as well as your mind.
Thank you very much, Mark, for being here with me.
I read about your loss of Aaron in your post regarding Rex – so I came to find what I had missed.
. . .
Becky.
My gosh. I don’t even know what to say.
I am sorry for your loss.
I don’t know what I could do – but if you do need anything – I am here.
*HUGS*
Thank you, Cari. Your support means the world.