Loss and Secrets and Paying It Forward

Sharing Saturday

I have been asked to take on a new job because of someone else's loss, and their need to take some time off from the rigidness of daily life. I do so happily, willingly, and with great empathy.  I wish that more of the work world could allow for more than a few days off when someone's heart is breaking.

Anytime I hear about a friend, a family member or even a stranger who is grieving a loss – be it the loss of physical health, the loss of a job, or a pet, the loss of a parent, or, as in recent days in my neighborhood, the loss of a beloved spouse, my heart grows several times larger, and I want to offer comfort and assistance.  Because I know loss.

I lost a child. My baby boy. He was five days old when he died almost 12 years ago, and not a day goes by where that loss doesn't color my world.

I don’t think about him everyday anymore, nor do I think about that suspended time in my life, where I spent two months on bed rest in the hospital, trying to save him, with a two-year-old at home wondering where his mommy went. I don't generally grieve his absence, as he has two brothers and a sister who take up time and space and breath and all my love.

But I am a different person than I was 12 years ago. Back then, although I had suffered through my parents' ugly divorce and subsequent desertions, I had not yet suffered the death of my heart. I had learned to accept disappointment, and to expect the worst from people, even those I loved. It had hardened me, but it did not shadow me.

After our baby's death, I learned about what it feels like to be the bereaved, and to fully believe that I would never feel anything but pain again.

And yet, this experience also opened my eyes to the miracle of the community I have built throughout the many circles in my life. I learned about the love of friends, and how tragedy has the potential to bring out not only the worst, but the best in people.  I learned about colleagues who had my back whenever I needed it, and friends who circled around my family, quietly buzzing, their humming allowing us space but letting us know that they were there when we needed them. I learned of my stepmother's love as she placed her hands on my shoulders at the cemetery, and of my husband's bottomless patience as I waded through months of stormy tears.

I learned about the strength I unknowingly held, and how it would allow me to make decisions, take charge and set my priorities at all times.  In 12 years, that strength has never wavered. My boundaries are clear, and the impossible juggling act I perform everyday – work, family, life – is rooted in the knowledge that I and those I love must always come first.

I had sworn off writing about this piece of my life – until I learned of my colleague's loss, and it opened the wounds all over again.  The way I address my pain is through words, through the telling of the story.  Those of us who hold secrets close to our heart know that our silence is only destructive and that our stories must be told.

When my son died, my father, who was 62 years old at the time, slammed his fist on my dining room table in anger, still reeling from a long-ago secret that pains him to this day. He had an older sister who died when she was two.  His parents never talked about it.  Instead, his mother walked around in hysterical tears once a year, scaring her children, befuddling her husband, and allowing her searing pain to blind her to the fact that her family was being torn apart by this terrible secret.

 My father's outburst at our table allowed him to mourn his own loss so many years ago.  He praised  our decision to talk to our son about what had happened to his baby brother, in terms that a two-year-old could understand.  We have never stopped talking about it, or allowed it to slide off our family history pages.

So I write again today, to tell my story once again, to allow the sunlight into those cracks in my heart, with the hope that I can bring empathy and assistance to a colleague who now has her own story to tell, and needs my help. 

Comments

[Beth Sperber Richie]

Karen,

Thank you for paying it forward and being willing to share your own loss with the rest of us. It is beautifully written, as always, and serves as a window in for those of us who are on the outside of someone else's loss.

[Katherine]

This post stopped me cold in my usual skimming mode of reading. Thank you for sharing such a painful memory and for turning your loss into a daily reminder of the priority we all should place on our children. What a beautiful way to honor your son's memory.

[Faye Moskowitz]

Karen, this is so heart-wrenching, and so full of healing.

[Abbi Lichtenstein]

Karen,
You are so brave to retell your story. Your colleague is very lucky to have someone like you to console her in her time of great need.
Thank you for sharing your experience with us. It was elegantly written.

[Melanie Haiken]

I too was stopped short; such a moving and heartfelt directness to your writing. I do think healing comes from sharing and from speaking our hearts. Thanks for sharing your story.

[Kay Kosak Abrams]

Karen,
Your writing is a powerful sharing and such a reminder of how secrets serve to enlarge and preserve pain. Your writing and your sharing is a release for all of us and allows us to hold you in our hearts. Love from our family to yours.

[Jennifer]

Thank you for sharing such intimate thoughts and words!