"Whether we meet our grief with a determined avoidance of tears or a seeming overabundance of them, one thing is sure, our lives have been changed irrevocably." (Page 48 of Grieving the Loss of Someone You Love)
What do you do when the funeral is over, the attention is gone and you're left with no one but yourself to cope with the grief and loss that is effecting everything in your life? I talked to family members when I could, went to therapy when I could, went to AA meetings when I could but didn't cry until later.
Surprising, isn't it? Not really. I've been told shock is one of the first things the body goes into when it's overwhelmed by emotional circumstances or events. I can attest to that logic. My entity went into shock for many months up until now. Now I can reach out. Now I can write. Now I can talk. Now I can cry.
Facing the loss of someone you loved and will never have a chance to see again is sad. It's unchangeable, it shakes you up, it destroys what little serenity you were clinging to. It interrupts normalcy and demands you be taken hostage in its grips. But then what?
I don't know. Today I am numb to the pain of it all. I see Aaron's photo frame, Cathy's memorial card, Maryla's picture, Bill and Sharon, and a series of pictures of my Dad and I. It's called the memory wall. It holds pictures of people who have died who have touched my life in someway. Karen is up there, too, but her loss was many years ago.
It's healing to see pictures after the death of a loved one. It brings them back into real time even though my heart and mind know differently. I suppose that's one way to unpack the pain. Bring it out of the shadows and watch it as it gives light to a whole new understanding of death.
Dear God, please make me an instrument of your peace so that all who see You will come to You, be saved by Your Grace and worship Your Name for you are a Holy God.
