As I write this, it’s January 8th. A new year increases our interest in taking the time to reflect, plan and dream. In the Northeastern U.S., we slow down because it’s cold and dark, and it’s nice to be home with candles, Netflix and soup. We think about those we love, those who love us and those we miss. When thinking about those I miss, I know that the belief that time leads to healing is a fallacy. Time does provide a buffer between us and the initial impact of losing someone we love, but that’s about it. Our son died just over five years ago and the five-year marker was more difficult than the four. We are beginning our 6th calendar year without him. Each year adds to the special occasions and ordinary days that he’s not a part of. Missing someone we love gets compounded with time. This is especially true for the loss of a child. Or maybe it’s only true for a child. My parents lived good, long lives and I’m so thankful to have had them for as long as I did. But since my dad died at 80 and my mom at 91, I don’t feel as if they should still be here. I expected to outlive them and I’m glad I did. The alternative would have been for them to bury me. After 16 years, I still miss walking into my dad’s room and having him turn off the TV so we could talk. After a year and a half, I still wish I could pick up my mom and drive to Chesapeake City for lunch on a sunny day. I love how they loved me and my sisters and our husbands. I love how they loved our kids. Not being dog or cat people, they even tolerated our pets. When our cat Huemoz surveyed the living room for a suitable lap, the person least likely to welcome him, my dad, realized he’d been “chosen” and let him jump up and get comfy. When one of our dogs got cancer, my mom came to both of his “last” birthday parties. (He exceeded life expectancy predictions.) But I don’t live in regret thinking they should still be here because I realize my sisters and I were blessed to have had them for as long as we did.
With Bobby, it’s different. He was 29 when he died. He would be 34 now, so yes, I do think he should be here. When we have children, we don’t imagine we’ll outlive them. We know it can and does happen, but possibility is a far cry from reality. We can’t depend on time for healing. Our healing needs to be intentional. This doesn’t occur by putting distance between us and our kids but by keeping them close. It’s healing to include Bobby in conversations and writing and to have daily reminders of him, such as pictures and things of his we’ve kept. Spending time with other moms who’ve lost children is healing. Prayer is healing. Sleeping for 10 hours is healing. A brisk walk is healing. Spending time alone can be healing. But just the passage of time is not. I’ve found it to be very beneficial that a lot of things that have been instrumental in helping me to cope with Bobby’s death were already in place in my life before he died. I don’t know where I’d be without my husband Bob and daughter Hannah or my family, friends and faith.
I don’t think I’m trying to hold on to him in a way that’s not healthy. I continue to live my life. Not everything has changed. I love my family and friends. I still take a tea break every day and enjoy listening to music. In fact, I’m starting to break free from being stuck in the seventies. Move over Jackson Browne. Music is more likely to make me cry now, but that’s ok. Bob and I like to travel; we enjoy getting introduced to Philly brunch places by our daughter; I keep my plants alive and take good care of our foster cat and our queen-of-the-backyard feral cat. I still spend too much time concentrating on minutiae and still don’t know what to do with my hair. But there is an unwelcome permanent component to my life now. Finding balance is not easy. It’s a constant challenge between cherishing Bobby’s memory and keeping it alive without being consumed by the profound sadness that often accompanies the memories. It’s not impossible, but it doesn’t just happen. I have to make the balance happen, or the sadness creeps in. Keeping him close is worth the challenge.
Pierre Auguste Renoir Puts On A Fresh Pot And Smokes A Cig
Putting on a fresh pot,
awaiting patiently, anticipation
is a sorry emotional lot.
When will my Columbian elixir
fix my sluggardly despair!?
I ponder you, oh gods of
the coffee bean, enticing me to feel
serene, as I wander and wonder
through this, at times dreary dream.
Oh, mornings, you shall be
the death of me. A cigarette lit in the
darkness. Two coal embers burning
in this misty malcontent. Tis that
season. The season of my malcontent
has long since passed, unaided, by the Hamlet
of my dreams.
-Bobby Young