I’ve been watching
some friends’ journey towards the first anniversary of the loss of a close
family member. It is a terrible thing to
relive such a loss, and it is also a terrible thing to watch helplessly as
someone endures it. It’s so odd to know
in a very vivid way what someone else must be feeling and to know at the same
time that their experience will also be uniquely specific to them, and
therefore peculiarly lonely. I think
back over what it felt like when I was coming up to the first anniversary of
Ramsy’s death.
Remembering the
renewed stream of memories from our family’s “old life” (before Ramsy got sick)
and from the time just before he died.
How those memories were sometimes so foremost in my mind that realizing
that other people were not experiencing the same memories was like hearing music
that somehow nobody else could hear. How
those memories made it seem like I was constantly moving through a time warp
and I wasn’t sure where or when I really was.
How I didn’t know what my kids needed from me as the anniversary
approached; whether they wanted me to refer to it explicitly or just to talk
about their dad more often or to be quiet about it. How I hunted in my mind for just the right
way to observe this event. How badly I
needed to know that other people were remembering Ramsy, and us, and missing
his presence. How often I needed to go
for very fast walks, just to be able to stay inside my own skin.
To the people who
prayed for us through that time: thank you.
To the people who sent
cards or emails: thank you.
To the people who remembered
and cared but found no words and could only hug us: thank you.
To those of you who
know someone who is missing someone: the small acts of kindness you think of,
the seemingly inadequate words you come up with, the wordless hugs you give, the prayers
you pray that just don’t feel like enough – they matter.
