Kleenex, Please (DEN)

“Where do you find these things?” Courie texted back this morning after I sent her yet another dank meme.

 

Reddit, of course. Same place I find cat gifs (exhibit one: http://i.imgur.com/tCVqM8O.gifv).

 

But somewhere nestled between the Kitty Olympics and photos of Mr. Steal yo’ Gurl (exhibit two: http://i.imgur.com/GtTIpBH.jpg), I’ll occasionally stumble upon profound commentary. Below is one of those Reddit passages concerning grief and loss.

 

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 have not. I’ve lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, my mother, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and thus I can’t imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here are my two cents.

 

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. I never did. And to be honest, I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever someone 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 relationship that I built with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love that created it.

 

So be it.

 

My scars are a testament to my life. A testament that I can love deeply and be cut deeply. But more so, that I can heal and continue to love. The scar tissue that forms is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can’t see their beauty.

 

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 the magnificence of the ship that was – and is no more. And all you can do is float. You try to find some piece of the wreckage to hang on for a while. Maybe it’s a physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s another person also trying to stay floating.

 

For a while, all you can do is float and stay alive.

 

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t give you any 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 all over you aiming to wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function, you can live.

 

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 resurfaces. But in between those waves, there is life.

 

Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 50 feet tall. Or 20 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. In time, you can see them coming: an anniversary, a birthday, Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And as it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out on 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. You learn to survive them. And in your life other, different 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.

If you showed up to the workout today, you’ll understand the relevance of this message. And even if you didn’t, I hope you’ll understand the importance of this message.

Love deeply; allow yourself to be cut. Own your scars. It’s our mortality on this planet that makes life exceptional.

You’ll be deeply missed Megan. Because you were deeply loved.

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