SCARS THAT LAST
“Sometimes those on the outside of grief wonder what takes so long for those who suffer from moving on. It’s as if because they cannot see a visible scar or site of amputation, there is no injury; which only seems to make the scars of loss more tender and grief more isolating.”
It had been exactly one month since my son had passed away. The cemetery grass bore a burial scar, reminding us of the hell we were living. As if the wind-toppled flowers and weathered stuffed animal didn’t remind me, the grass did, and it pained me deeply.
Every time I visited the cemetery, there was a quiet desperation in my heart. I wanted to dig up the grass with my bare hands as fast as my feeble arms and trembling hands could so that I might rescue my son from the dark. I could still feel the warmth of his cuddles in my arms and on my chest. Mitchell’s soft voice echoed in my mind and my heart broke over, and over, and over again.
Sometimes those on the outside of grief wonder what takes so long for those who suffer from moving on. It’s as if because they cannot see a visible scar or site of amputation, there is no injury; which only seems to make the scars of loss more tender and grief more isolating.
I had knee surgery about 25 years ago, repairing my ACL. After all these years, my knee bears the scars of that operation and my nerves are permanently damaged. That was just my knee. In my younger years, I sustained injuries and wondered if I would scar and how long they would last. Most of them faded away over time. But, like my knee, some scars last a lifetime. If our bodies carry scars, what of our souls? My knee doesn’t make me human – but my love and emotions do. Losing Mitch scarred me in a place you cannot see with your eyes. But that scar exists, and it is very real. And like my nerves, there is also damage.
“Grief is inevitable and it forms scars that are deep. Scars that last. As it matures, it transforms from an obstacle into a path. ”
In my book, I write a great deal about grief rituals, but for now I’ll just say that I visited Mitch every single day for almost two years. At first, I was traumatized and psychologically I think I visited the cemetery to comfort him, even though I knew he wasn’t there. In time, I began to see that I was going there to sort things out and that I was seeking comfort myself. I no longer visit the cemetery every single day. But I do visit often.
At least to me, grief seems to mirror the cycle of life. The death of our loved ones doesn’t mean our grief dies with them. Much to the contrary, when our children die, grief is just being born … and that grief will live with us until the day we die. However, like humans, grief grows up and matures over time.
When grief is first born, it is much like that of a newborn: we cry. A lot. We don’t have the capacity for words – only tears. Then, we become toddlers with grief … learning to walk and find our balance in life. Some learn to walk quickly, for others, it takes time. We try to use our words and sometimes they don’t come out right – but we’re growing and learning how to come alive again. Like our human experience, grief grows from child-like stages to adolescence and then into adulthood. During those adolescent stages of grief, some behaviors might seem juvenile, and people may do things that harm themselves or their relationships with others. Not everybody does … but I have seen some that do. Eventually, grief matures and reaches seasoned adulthood, where there is balance, reason, and understanding.
I have discovered that as long as I live, grief will never die. The death of my son was the birth of my grief and I will have to care for it as though it were a person. In fact, grief is a person. Grief is me. So, I must tend to it and take good care of it and cultivate growth. I am both the parent and the child. Like raising a child, if I’m not disciplined, grief can spoil and become rotten and ruin me.
When I visit the cemetery, I no longer want to scoop up the earth with my hands and rescue my boy. I mean, I do … but I don’t have that desperate feeling anymore. There is still a tender part of me that always wants to wake him gently from his sleep and say, “Little Mitch, it is time to wake. Let me lay here for you. Let me take your place.”
I think I understand and have learned to accept what has happened. That doesn’t mean I don’t hurt. I hurt a great deal. However, I have come to a place of balance, reason, and understanding. But there is still damage on the inside and a scar you cannot see with your eyes.
Grief is inevitable and it forms scars that are deep. Scars that last. As it matures, it transforms from an obstacle into a path.
I have discovered that as long as I live, grief will never die. The death of my son was the birth of my grief and I will have to care for it as though it were a person. In fact, grief is a person. Grief is me. So, I must tend to it and take good care of it and cultivate growth. I am both the parent and the child. Like raising a child, if I’m not disciplined, grief can spoil and become rotten and ruin me.
When I visit the cemetery, I no longer want to scoop up the earth with my hands and rescue my boy. I mean, I do … but I don’t have that desperate feeling anymore. There is still a tender part of me that always wants to wake him gently from his sleep and say, “Little Mitch, it is time to wake. Let me lay here for you. Let me take your place.”
I think I understand and have learned to accept what has happened. That doesn’t mean I don’t hurt. I hurt a great deal. However, I have come to a place of balance, reason, and understanding. But there is still damage on the inside and a scar you cannot see with your eyes.
Grief is inevitable and it forms scars that are deep. Scars that last. As it matures, it transforms from an obstacle into a path.