The holiday season can be a very tough time of year for some people. Celebrating without loved ones can be overwhelming and grief, and broken hearts are not easily forgotten.
For myself, it has been 10 years since I lost my mom, two and a half since I lost my dad and this spring I lost my sister, Marina, unexpectedly. How does one keep it together when consumed by grief?
Many people told me, “It will get easier”, “They are watching over you”, “They are in a better place.” I do believe and embrace most of the comments but it NEVER gets any easier. Daily events in my life remind me of the emptiness in my heart and the knowledge of knowing THEY ARE NEVER COMING BACK.
It’s a blessing when I have busy days, but when my head hits that pillow at night, my lost loved ones are the last thing I think of in the quietness of my room. Things like Christmas baking sadden me. I wish I had paid more attention to the making of goodies that I took for granted.
How does one continue on?
A friend of mine posted a great write-up on Facebook recently that (for the time being) gave me a different point of view. A person asks for advice online on how to deal with grief. As always, the write-up comes with some advice and a different perspective on how to deal with grief. That alone helps me get through another day.
Remember, everyone you meet in life has a story of which you are likely not aware. If you’ve not been through this in your life, you may have no idea what I’m talking about.
All I can say is that there is no way to prepare for grief. My advice is to be kind and compassionate to one another and remember, don’t spend so much time grieving that you forget to live.
The article is on ‘That Eric Alper’ and goes like this.
Someone on Reddit wrote the following heartfelt plea online: “My friend just died. I don’t know what to do.”
A lot of people responded. Then there’s one old guy’s incredible comment that stood out from the rest that might change the way we approach life and death:
“Alright, here goes. I’m old. What that means is that I’ve survived (so far) and a lot of people I’ve known and loved, did not. I’ve lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbours and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can’t imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here’s my two cents.
“I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me when somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to ‘not matter’. I don’t want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so is the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see them.
“As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
“In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything … and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.
“Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.
“Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.”
