Your Grief and Joy
Are
Holding Hands in
Your Heart
Each year the
Compassionate Friends hold a worldwide Candle Lighting Memorial service on the
second Sunday in December. I am honored to have spoken at the last several
services in Vero Beach, Florida. In my absence this past December 9, Gina Wattles
was kind enough to share my words. The December service is often the only time during
the holiday season that we who have suffered great loss pause and reflect on
loss and love. My reflection on loss, love, and joy follows.
Balancing the
Scales of Grief and Joy
Those
of us who have suffered great loss have that
day—the day life changed. The day that reminds us once a year that we grieve
the loss of our child, grandchild, sibling, or other loved one. Sure as clockwork,
the day we most wish to avoid comes back, whether it be one year or thirty
years since it signified our greatest loss.
Each
of us approaches the day with our own set of fears, longing, and dreams that
the day had never happened. Each of us also manages the best we can. We grieve,
yet we celebrate life; we hold our memories close, wishing we had more. We
might plant a tree, sit on a beach, look at photos, or reminisce about our
loved one's quirks and personality. How ever we spend that day, each of us
marks its significance, even if that means hiding under the covers until the
day ends.
November
2, 1986, is that day for me. At 1:47 p.m., my darling Alexa took her last
breath. Often, especially in the years of my fresh grief, as the day neared, I
was full of fear, projecting my thoughts back to that worst day. I found that
planning for the day eased some of my profound grief and fear. I planted many
trees in the last thirty-two years. I said many prayers. I reminisced with
family and friends. I remembered my sweet child with love and longing.
Since
that day, much has happened to remind me that although the signal event in my
life was Alexa's illness and death, my life is much more than loss and grief. I
have learned to embrace the moments that transcend the sadness of loss. I have
learned to embrace the moments that remind me life has much to celebrate, to
laugh about, to smile about; although at times, I still cry about that cruelest
of events.
Still,
November 2 doesn't go away. As sure as the seasons, it approaches me every
fall. I don't fear it as I once did, but I don’t welcome it.
This
year on November 2, I woke early and for just a few moments I didn't remember
it was the day. It was simply a day. But like rain in a Florida summer, the
date crept into my consciousness. Enough years have passed since that first
November 2 that I wasn't crushed. Instead I felt more of a quiet acceptance.
Later
that morning, my daughter Tarah called so my two-year-old grandson Shawn could
FaceTime with me. They live in New England and it's how we stay close during
the long months we don't see each other.
During
our chat, Shawn decided he wanted to make Nana comfortable. In the photos Tarah
sent, Shawn has "me" (the phone) nestled in pillows and covered with
a blanket with just my face peeking out. In one photo he sits and talks to me.
In the most precious photo, he is lying down next to the phone. Shawn made sure
Nana was snuggled and held close by the pillows, blanket, and his darling self.
The sweetness of Shawn's actions brought an indescribable joy to my heart.
Shawn had no way of knowing that day is my saddest day. Shawn had no way of
knowing he brought so much joy to me on a day that often brings so much pain.
Snuggling
with Shawn via FaceTime and feeling his love and care made my heart sing.
November 2 is not usually a day that my heart sings. But it did that morning,
and in spite of it being a day of loss, Shawn's little heart carried me; it
held me throughout the day.
And
there it was: The perfect juxtaposition of grief and joy. I am again reminded
that the two go together. Alexa was one of my greatest joys; thus, her loss is my
greatest grief. There is no way to separate the two. What we lose matters so
much because of the joy and love the life once held for us. As we go forward in
our journey of loss, it's important to never lose sight of the joy our loved
one gave us. It's also important to never lose sight of the joy that still
awaits us. We must continue to be open to receiving and embracing joy, just as
Shawn embraced me that November morning.
As
Kahlil Gibran wrote in his classic poem on "Joy and Sorrow" in his
book, The Prophet:
"When
you are joyous, look deep into your heart and you shall find it is only that
which has given you sorrow that is giving you joy.
"When
you are sorrowful, look again in your heart, and you shall see that in truth
you are weeping for that which has been your delight."
Gibran
knew our sorrow and our joy are forever entwined. I agree.
As
Shawn showed me November 2, on the one hand we have our grief and on the other
hand we have our joy. Sometimes, if we pause long enough and look deep into our
hearts, we can see that our grief and our joy are holding hands. I know that's
how my heart looked on November 2.
