I share some version of this every year on 9/11 because while it has been decades since this tragedy, it continues to reverberate in the hearts and lives of those who experienced it.
When you lose someone you love suddenly and unexpectedly your world is turned upside down.
Those who were taken on this day twenty-three years ago are rightfully mourned and marked by nations.
Those of us who quietly said good-bye in hospitals or on roadside accident sites or in our living rooms when we were brought the news often mourn alone.
But know this: Regardless of how death steals your loved one, it takes great courage to live every day knowing by experience that a single moment can change everything.
We should honor the survivors too.
❤ Melanie
It’s been twenty-three years since the Towers fell.Hard to believe-no matter how great the tragedy, life goes on.
Like many, I was watching things as they happened that day.
My husband, an architect and engineer, saw the wobble in the first tower and knew- he KNEW- it was going to collapse. Horrified I began to understand that whoever was still in that building was running out of time.
Reading back through these posts has been both painful and hope-filled.
One will be celebrating the healing my heart has experienced and the next will be mourning how much different my life IS from the picture of how I thought it WOULD be.
A theme running through them all is how very important it’s been for me to have safe people and safe places to express both.
2016: Another Day
I wake and you are still gone.
The cats tap-tap-tapping on my arms and face declare the day has begun despite the dark and I need to climb out of bed.
Why?
What difference does it make?
I trudge downstairs, put the coffee on, feed the cats and settle into my chair to read and write.
Some of us have stories that need tellingNOW. We can’t wait until our age guarantees us a captive audience.
Because telling the stories helps our hearts.
A fellow bereaved mom who has a gift for finding exquisite quotes found this one:
Sometimes I think that if it were possible to tell a story often enough to make the hurt ease up, to make the words slide down my arms and away from me like water, I would tell that story a thousand times.
~Anita Shreve, The Weight of Water
Every time I tell the story of Dominic, it helps to keep him real.
It reminds my heart that he lived, that he mattered, that he matters still.
Can we stop hiding our sorrow and pain and struggles and difficulties and let people in on what’s going on?
I truly believe that if we did, we’d all be better for it.
Because no one-really, truly no one-is spared from some kind of problem. And for many of us, it has nothing to do with our own choices. It’s visited upon us from the outside.
It comes out of nowhere, happens fast and suddenly consumes every aspect of our lives.
If you are a believer in Jesus, you might think you should be immune to these hardships. You might do a quick calculation and decide that, on balance, you’ve led a pretty decent life and certainly God should notice and spare you and yours from awful tragedy.
Or you might look around and notice all those who leave hurt and heartache in their wake and wonder why they seem to live a charmed life while death and destruction have visited yours.
Maybe it’s grief brain or my autoimmune disease or some other biological issue of which I’m ignorant.
But I just don’t have the energy to be on guard, to defend my “territory”, to argue with everyone who might hold a different opinion or who might be experiencing life from a different perspective.
It’s so easy to focus on the miles left to travel and forget how far I’ve come.
Life has a habit of reminding me that there are hills yet to climb, emotional hurdles still to come and (the ever looming threat) gray hair, wrinkles and an aging body with which to tackle them.
But every now and then I remember to take stock of just how many miles I’ve already traveled.
I know I’m not the only one who carries a calendar in my head that threatens to explode like a ticking timebomb.Days that mean nothing to anyone else loom large as they approach.
The date of his death.
The date of his funeral.
His birthday.
My birthday.
The day he should have graduated from law school.
On and on and on.
How can I survive these oppressive reminders of what I thought my life would look like? How can I grab hold of something, anything that will keep my heart and mind from falling down the rabbit hole of grief into a topsy-turvy land where nothing makes sense and it’s full of unfriendly creatures that threaten to gobble me whole?
I first shared this a couple summers ago when I was actively working my way through several piles of boxed up memories.
I’d love to report that I whittled it down to a manageable few but I can’t.
I’m going to pretend it was lack of time that kept me from doing a better job but truth is it was mostly lack of heart.❤
I’m pretty sure I’m not the only bereaved parent who has boxed up things post loss and left them untouched for years.
Life kept moving at a fast pace after Dominic ran ahead to Heaven and it’s only been in the last couple of years that I’ve had the time to even consider going through his stuff.
Time alone was not enough to push me toward doing the hard work of deciding what to keep, what to give away and (most painfully!) what to throw away. But various circumstances forced my hand and I’ve spent much of the last year digging through stuff and digging up memories.
To be sure, not everything has a direct connection to Dominic.
I absolutely understand that when people say things like, “Just think of all the wonderful memories you have” or “He brought you so much joy”they mean well.
Because it’s true-I have beautiful memories of Dominic. And he DID bring me great joy.
But I had those things BEFORE he was beyond my reach.
I wrote this post after hearing a radio interview in which the guest said, “You can only hold onto what you refuse to let go of” in reference to clinging to what was truly important in life.
It struck a chord deep in my heart because as the weeks turn to months and then to years, I’m realizing I must hold onto every bit of Dominic that I can.
Because no matter how much I wish it were different, time has a way of washing our minds clean of things we don’t cling to with both hands.
Those hours before I planted one last kiss on my son’s forehead, I held his hand.
I nodded at the people filing past to pay their respects with my arm tucked behind me, desperate to cling to my child.
Ninety miles an hour-that’s how fast my mind can go from here to there.
From what’s in front of me to what’s behind me.
From laughter to swallowing sobs.
We sit in a living room surrounded by toys and playing with children, talking about life and love and plans and people. The little brown face that turns his eyes to mine looks so much like Dominic I have to suck in my breath.
Giggles. Squeals. Cars running up and down my arm and around my feet.
I originally shared this years ago-when grief was newer and nearly every day meant tears.
I’m stronger now and better able to carry this load called “child loss”. But if I’m honest, the missing is greater, the longing keener than it was in the early days when memories were still fresh and easily retrieved.
Still, there are places and things that draw my heart right back to the fresh faced little boy, the smart aleck teen, the ambitious, courageous and accomplished young man that was Dominic.
❤ Melanie
Every room holds memories. Every footfall echoes past days. Every window frames some precious vignette in my mind’s eye.
Inescapable.
Most days I’ve learned to turn down the volume.But today it would not be denied.
thelifeididntchoose 