This week I was reading an article about grief and loss written by Pastor John Pavlovitz. In the article, he talks about that moment when a person realizes they have lost someone they love, and that one word which seems to always emanate from their lips – “No.” Such a simple word, but the meaning, in such a time as grief, speaks volumes.
I remember the night Bruce died, and realizing the responsibility of calling everyone to tell them what had just happened fell to me. There was no one else to do it… I was alone. I had never done anything like this before. when I called, I didn’t even think to ask people if there was anyone else around. It didn’t even dawn on me. (Thankfully, there usually was.) Of all the calls I made that night, though, there are a few calls that still stand out in my mind.
One of the first calls was Bruce’s parents. I remember talking to his mother, and I think I will forever hear the echo of her horrified “No” when I told her the news. It was awful, and it encompassed everything I was trying to deny.
The calls to my two daughters who were closest to Bruce were made shortly afterward with pretty much the same reaction. It wasn’t just a quiet “no” of disbelief for my sake; it was a “no” for what it meant to them, as well… For a loss that felt like more than they could bear.
Talking to Bruce’s daughter was another call that still stands out in my head. We had been playing “phone tag” for almost 24 hours, before we finally connected. By that time, she knew something was up, but I don’t think she had the slightest idea what I was about to say. The shock and anguish in her voice broke my heart all over again.
Don’t get me wrong, I am pretty sure that almost every person I called that night responded with that same word, whether it was for me or them or both. However, those first few weeks are such a blur that these are the voices that still haunt in my dreams.
Yet here is the strange part…
From what I remember, “no” was not my response when the doctor told me the news at the hospital. Not that I wasn’t completely devastated… I was. I just wasn’t surprised. I knew before the ambulance ever left the house… I had witnessed his last breath. I had started the CPR. I had watched as the EMTs did everything they could, while the heart monitor line stayed flat. I sat and waited with the ambulance as we all waited for a police officer to arrive and take me – following the ambulance, rather than racing to the hospital… Plus, there were no sirens when we did finally make that trip. So, I knew… I didn’t want to know, but I did.
So, when the doctor came in to confirm what I already knew, I don’t remember saying anything except to ask if I could be with him for a while. Then, I stayed by his side until the Medical Examiner’s office came to get him – stroking his face and hair, touching his hands one more time… Actually, I think I was waiting for him to open his eyes and smile at me… Because, honestly, I knew he was gone, but I hadn’t accepted it or processed it.
That acceptance took weeks… I remember that it hit me about the time I brought his ashes home. I do remember the “NO!” at that point. I remember wailing in the middle of the floor in our living room. Looking around at our home… our world… and refusing to accept the reality that had been dealt. Knowing without a doubt that I could not move forward with him by my side. The horror of that moment in time will always be etched into my soul. I remember begging Bruce to come back… begging God to let him back… To let me wake up from this God-awful nightmare.
At the same time, I also remember feeling his presence next to me and a quiet voice in my soul saying that he would be by my side for as long as I needed him. In the beginning, I hung onto that promise like it was oxygen. Through the years, I have felt him less and less. I am guessing maybe I am adjusting, and (maybe) need his constant presence less than I did. However, there are a lot of days (several lately) where I have reminded him of his promise and let him know I need him… still… And when I have the privacy, I still sit in the middle of the floor, and cry “no!”
“No” for him… “No” for me… “No” for us… Just “no!”
Having been through more trauma than I would want to remember, I can honestly say that grief has been the most challenging journey I have experienced – maybe because it breaks you down to the roots of your soul. Sometimes I believe, we feel like this journey is nothing more than a very lonely path, especially since it is so different for each of us. However, our love for those we have lost is something we all share.
I believe we can find courage and strength in one another’s stories. I believe we can offer each other empathy when we open our hearts to one another. I don’t know about you, but it makes me feel better knowing there are others out there who understand what I mean, and what I feel. It’s nice to know I’m not alone… Maybe this strikes a chord with you too. We would all love to hear your thoughts or your story. If you would like to share your experience or if you need a helping hand or maybe a virtual hug, let us know. We are here for you.
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