Three weeks ago today, a glorious and gorgeous light was taken from this world entirely too soon. This young man was really just starting his life and those of us who loved him like our own, were shocked and devasted by his sudden and unexpected death. It was an honor to watch him grow from a little boy through his tweens and teens and finally into a young man starting to make his mark on the world. As a part of our circle, he had more "mamas" than he knew what to do with, but there were a few of us who were fortunate to spend more time with him and felt even more of a maternal draw towards him. After news of his death, a group of us "mamas" came together as we processed and grieved and cried and raged and tried to wrap our heads around this enormous and shocking void.
Unbelievably, five days (five days!) later, one of these dear "mamas" also lost her son. When I say unbelievably, I mean that in the very fullness of that word. My dear friend lost her beautiful son, Luke, suddenly and unexpectedly. Luke was such an amazing young man, also just starting out into adulthood. He loved so fully and completely. His light so bright others could find their way out of the darkness. And it is utterly unbelievable.
When I heard about Luke, I rushed to my friend's home and wrapped her in my arms, trying to take away the tragic reality. She asked me if it ever gets better, and I said, "I'm not going to lie to you, it doesn't get better, but you will find a way." In my experience, you never miss your child less, but you somehow find a way to live with a hole in your soul.
For these past three weeks many of us have been walking around in a fog. We have surrounded my friend, Luke's sister, his beloved partner, and their family and friends with love, support and service. We have held their hands and held them up. Encouraged them to eat, sleep, and stay hydrated. Tended to as many of their day to day needs as possible. We have done what you do wnen someone you love is in unimaginable pain, we loved them with all we have to offer. And it is hard. It is so, so hard to watch someone ache to their very core.
After Hart died, I remember people telling me they felt honored to be by our side as we grieved. Now I know what they meant. It is such an honor, an intimite, raw, personal walk of love. I would be lying if I said this hasn't triggered some really big feelings and unearthed some memories that had been deeply buried. I'm trying hard not to project or insert myself into her grief, but have offered my friend some of my experiences, my mistakes, things I feel I got right (or right for me, anyway), "permission' to feel any and all ways, to change her mind, to not change her mind, to make decisions, to not have to make decisions. I told her that I know there are things that bring comfort to some and deepen despear for others. So much of grief navigation is trial and error and it is constantly changing. What worked yesterday may not work today.
Everyone who has walked this walk knows that grief is an individual, solitary, neverending act. It clings to every part of your life, sometimes as a hardly noticible shadow, sometimes as a giant obstacle blocking your path. There are some similarities, "universal truths," of course, but every experience is unique, nonlinear and life-long. The thing is you want people to understand, you want them to say the words that will ease the pain, to offer grace and healing. You want them to know how losing a child impacts every aspect of your life, every decision, every action. You want them to know you are absolutly doing the best you can, even when it looks like a complete mess. You want everyone to understand the weight of life, because it is so heavy and oh so brief-so, so brief. But really, you don't want anyone to understand or experience the unfathomable anguish of losing a part of your soul and you know there is no other way to understand.
It's interesting how grief creeps in without invitation, without regard for time or space and before, even, thought can form. In the past few days I've wiped my cheek countless times to find tears I didn't even know I had shed. I've been surprised how fresh and raw grief can feel-even 18 years later. In an alternate reality, Hart should be graduating high school this spring, but instead I feel like it was yesterday that we were saying goodbye. I'm not sure how much of this fresh grief is because I keep thinking of what could be-what should be, and how much has been stirred by the heartbreaking loss of these two amazing young men. It doesn't really matter, it is part of my journey, one that I cannot avoid or protect myself from, but honestly I wouldn't want to, because the joy is always worth the pain.
