Reflections from the Editor - Living With Loss Magazine, Winter 2007
I have been down with a viral infection and have lost my voice for the third time in eight months. It’s not even cold and flu season yet. I know this froggy sound is stress-induced. It’s been happening since I was a child. I realize now, it was and still is, a fear response to loss, and to change and uncertainty in my life.
The voice of grief can be harsh and unforgiving, and at times even silent, but the impact of its truth is known only to the griever. Grieving and growing takes a tremendous toll on the body, the mind and the spirit. I remind myself that I know how to do this grieving thing. Honestly, I’ve been very attentive to the process, yet I still get sick. It’s apparent that on a deeper level, I must be so conditioned to use illness as a tool to facilitate my recovery. At fifty, this feels childish – haven’t I learned more than this?
Thankfully, the remedy is simply forgiveness. I must listen to my body’s cry for rest. It’s time to lay low and be quiet…soothe my raspy throat with popsicles like the ones my dad would bring home for me when I was young…watch television reruns with happy endings like The Andy Griffith show…and read tabloid trash about the rich and famous. ANYTHING to keep that incessant talking inside my head from damaging my spirit. “You should have brought Dad to rehab sooner…You should have brought him to your home instead…You should have reported the ICU nurse for enforcing rigid and unreasonable rules on a dying patient…You should have never left him even for a moment.”
The dual role of grieving daughter and caregiver confirmed to me that anticipatory grief is real and valid. I never thought I could know too much about grief but it feels that way right now. I’ve grown weary of thinking about it, reading about, talking about it, and living with so many aspects of it these past few years. There is no doubt that these frequent journeys to the interior of my soul have forged a path to personal insights, wisdom and healing. But, this time, letting go of perceptions that no longer serve me and saying goodbye to yet another loved one who is called to serve elsewhere has rendered me almost speechless.
It was goodbye again…and this time I was 11 years-old…desperately holding on to my daddy’s hand, my tear-stained face buried in the sleeve of his uniform, suffocating on the unspoken fear that he might not come back from the war. The monotonous announcements of scheduled departures in Union Station merged with the ICU monitor as the rapid drop in his blood pressure made this goodbye imminent...
In that moment, one simple fact came to mind: I knew that this time, I would feel death’s permanence like never before. This time, there was no defense mechanism cloaked in naiveté that held the hope that we would get the miracle. No prayer, no wishful-thinking or fantasy, not one ounce of denial…just an unleashed wail of anguish from the depth of my soul.
I don’t know what happened after Dad took that last breath – I haven’t heard yet so it is still up for discussion. I do know that when he took his last breath -we held ours - until the promise of freedom dawned and with that acceptance we released him. I was in awe of the grace that enveloped the room, lifting me to a level of gratitude I had never known before. In the end, Dad did not lose the battle, but surrendered his last breath to death to live again…to become whole and holy.
This time, I understand.
© 2007 Carla Blowey , Reprinted with permission. All rights reserved.
© 2007 Reprinted with permission from Bereavement Publications, Inc, Living With Loss™ Magazine, Winter 2007, Vol. 22 No. 4, pg 5, (888) 604-4673, www.livingwithloss.com.
Carla
The soul always knows what to do to heal itself. The challenge is to silence the mind.