Someone on reddit wrote the following heartfelt plea online:
"My friend just died. I don't know what to do."
Many people responded with words of encouragement, but one response in
particular, by an older gentlemen, really stood out from the rest...
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, neighbors, 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 whenever 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 was 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.
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 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 over 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
all 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
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