Monday, October 13, 2014

Loss but not lost

"One of the lights has gone out," I remarked as I walked down the sidewalk to the car. This in reference to the solar landscape lights we placed along the walk. The gravity of my statement soaked into my head as I settled into the front seat. A sweet friend of mine died this morning. She was expecting her sixth child, a daughter.

We rushed to the home where she had lived for several years with her husband and five children. Where she had welcomed two new babies to the family. Where she breathed for the last time. She was a member of a very large, very tight extended family. When we arrived, there were cousins and sisters and aunts crying and bustling around the kitchen. Brothers and fathers and friends were milling around the yard and porch and den whispering and hugging and eating. All of the kids -- siblings and cousins -- were running around the yard with the dogs and chickens. They were picking up sticks and sword fighting, teasing the cow, and petting the horses. Every time someone new arrived, there would be hugs and tears and explanations.

I find so much comfort in the gathering after someone dies. Everyone is drawn to the home or family home, where they lean on each other and eat lots of fried chicken. There's always a few people in the kitchen making food or cleaning up. Then another in the washroom doing laundry. And there's always  a group of people insulating the bereaved, so they don't have to keep telling the same story over and over.

I've cried and hugged and nodded and comforted throughout the morning. I can't believe someone so young and healthy was taken so quickly. This kind of loss makes me question a lot of things. Someone said she's in a better place. I would say the best place would be here, with the kids who need her and the family that loves her. There is a big gaping hole left in the fabric of this family. One that cannot be easily filled by friends and well-wishers. Not long-term anyway.

I am the kind of person that doesn't need platitudes. I need to connect with the loss and let it turn me inside out and rip out my guts. I have to feel. I can't ice myself to numbness and think about it tomorrow. I've lost many loved ones, and all the things people say just set my teeth on edge. I don't need to feel better, I just need to get to the acceptance part. For me, numbing puts off healing. But sometimes people don't know what to say, so they let the first thing fly out of their mouth. I guess it's comforting for them to talk about it. And who am I to tell anyone how to grieve?