An Unfortunate Honor

It has now been 150 weeks since Jillian left this world.  Much has transpired since that time.  I have gotten myself involved in many great non-profit groups focusing on the care of children and families going through similar situations that I have experienced.  I have investigated, applied to and been accepted to a graduate program in social work.  I have changed jobs after working for essentially the same organization for 19 plus years.  I have started a new job in a company with a mission of meeting the needs of families and kids.  I have taken up hiking and even started playing softball again.  I have gone to the state capital and took part in a lobby day for pediatric palliative care. I have gone on long walks and spent numerous hours writing in this and other journals about my feelings and thoughts about Jillian’s death and my own journey through grief and life.  It has been rewarding to do all these things.  Perhaps that is what Jillian intended for me upon her departure.  I feel as though I have actually become a new person in a lot of ways, but there is still a lot ahead of me. I look forward to it as much as I look forward to seeing Jillian again. 

But through all of this, over the last 1,000+ days, the most significant element of all of this is the people who I have met.  There have been so many.  Many are other parents who have lost a child as well - and labeled as bereaved parents just like me.  These parents have a special place in my heart.  I think about them often and have forged great friendships with many of them. 

As a parent who has lost a child, what do you say when you meet another parent or couple whose child has died?  I have wrestled with this concept.  What is appropriate in this politically correct focused world? To me it isn't at all about political correctness, but it's about honor and respect.  It's about breaching the sacred.  It's about our children and the pain we both feel because of their absence.

Most times when I meet a new person and I am genuinely glad to have met them, I usually say, “It is a pleasure to meet you, or I am glad to meet you.”  But when you meet another parent who has lost a child is it really a pleasure? “I’m glad to meet you” just doesn’t seem like the right thing to say.  After all, the only reason your meeting is because both of you have lost children.  Both would certainly choose to have their child back instead of meeting this new acquaintance.    The rub though is that after you meet, my experience has been that it was almost as if it was set up from the get go.  The parents I have met are incredible and amazing. They have lost a child, and they are still standing.  They are resilient. Their outlook on life is deeper.  They understand and value things from a different perspective.  They realize that life is very short, yet can be full of amazing lessons and journeys.  They wrestle with not being judgmental and often bite their tongues when their friends with living children complain about the little things.  They advocate for other parents and families who have experienced or will endure similar loss.  They get sad and cry in the middle of the day when they remember a special thing about their child.  They understand respect and boundaries. They cry for others who experience loss.  They show a great appreciation for life and have a deep compassion for others. They understand things a bit deeper than the average joe getting a cup of coffee at Starbucks.
 
It is truly a pleasure and an honor to meet these parents. Yet at the same time, your meeting is based on an incredibly unfortunate set of circumstances – the death of your children. It is a paradox that I certainly won’t figure out in my lifetime, but do think it gives me insight into choosing the most appropriate greeting. So, here’s what I will say from now on:  It’s an unfortunate honor to meet you.  I think that just about sums up the entire sacredness and truism of meeting another bereaved parent. An unfortunate honor.
 

Time

 This weekend marks the 103^rd week since Jillian left this world.  As I calculated in my journal, over 1 million minutes of time have elapsed.  But it still seems like it was just yesterday that I was holding her hand as she took her last breath.  Sometimes it still seems like a dream.  An often heard cliché when someone goes through a difficult loss is, “time will heal”.  However I don’t think that is quite true.  Actually, I am sure it is not.  Time doesn’t heal anything, but time allows you to heal.  Let me explain. 

When I started thinking about the idea of time it first seemed like it was cold and uncaring.  The seconds, minutes, hours, weeks, months, and years seem to have their own agenda and lack any compassion as they just continue to ‘march on’ in spite of the loss of my child.  I looked at time as my enemy.  It wouldn’t give anything back.  It was focused only on moving forward.  Couldn’t it just pause and rewind for me awhile so that Jillian and I could sing one more song together?  Watch a video one last time? Or read just one more book?  Time just seemed so unforgiving.

Yet as the minutes have turned to hours, the hours to days, the days to weeks, the weeks to months, and the months to years my opinion of time has changed. I no longer look at it as my enemy, but time has actually become one of my closest, if not best, friends.  You see, ‘time’ has not judged me as I have tried to navigate my life after Jillian’s death.  Time has not criticized me.  Time has not made me feel guilty.  Time has not been insensitive.  Time has not expected that “I should be over my grief by now”.  Time has not been ignorant.  Time has not been silent or said awkward things. 

But instead time has been accepting.  Time has been understanding and patient.  Time has been sensitive and allowing.  Time hasn’t healed me or my wounds of grief, but has allowed me the space I need to heal.  Time has been my best friend just willing to sit with me in my pain and grief and tears and sadness and in my space of anger, guilt and confusion –knowing all along that I would get by and be okay.  Time gives me hope that I can do something more with my life.  Time inspires me to realize that though there is only a limited time we are here, there is so much we can do with it. 

I truly believe that Jillian understood this idea of time - she understood that time was a friend, not the enemy.  She was on this earth for 10 years, 10 months, and 10 days.  Her time was exactly what it was supposed to be.  She knew it and embraced it.  That is why she lived life as she did - with vigor, with love, with silliness, with an outlook worthy of imitation. While most are consumed with getting things done, accomplishing things and performing for the rest of the world, she was only concerned with the day to day things that were simple and yet deep and real.  Spending an hour on the computer laughing at hallmark greeting cards – the same one over and over – was way more important than any math problem that she needed to solve.  She knew that her friend Time would only be able to provide life for her for a shorter amount than most. What was important for her was to love, laugh, give, learn, and teach while she had that space. 

So I have come to the conclusion that Time is the best friend anyone can have when they go through a loss such as ours.  As I navigate my life now with my friend Time, I’m comforted knowing that ‘he’ will always give me exactly what I need.  If I try to fight against him and look at him as the enemy again, I will certainly miss many of the things that life will offer me through our relationship.