Dear Crash and Mars:
It was a tragic sort of weekend as you said on the radio. A young woman, about to be married was killed at a Jeep demonstration. A young man ran into traffic and was struck and killed by a 17 year old driver. And yes, a car drove into a patio, and a 2 year old boy was killed.
You said the family of the 2 year old was ruined.
I was offended.
You see, there are a group of us who know what you are so frightened of. There are a group of women in my city, who bit their lips and closed their eyes and viscerally felt the pain of that mother. We know what it is to hold your lifeless child.
We know what it is to stare into closed eyes, willing them to open.
And we know what it is to wake up the morning after, and the morning after that.
We know.
And so we know – they aren’t ruined.
We know because we had to make a choice. We had to come back from this. We know that life, the universe and everything may come to an end in a terrible way one day. We know that life isn’t fair, it doesn’t even out and that declaring how you would never recover is no guarantee that the fundamental inequity of the universe won’t visit you.
So, we are offended.
Because, from this computer, in the 20 minutes I have squeezed out between meetings, in the middle of giving my best friend’s cat sub-cutaneous fluids and talking to my husband, I know that ruination is too extreme and not descriptive enough.
I held my son’s body in my arms while he died. My husband stood and watched us, held our baby as we said good bye. And then stood next to me for a long time as we clawed our way back to life.
And then, when it became apparent that there would be no more babies, we started a foundation to help others.
And then we became the world’s greatest Aunt and Uncle. And we fed a parade of young adults Sunday dinner. And we did a good job at our work and got promoted.
And we planted a tree for our son and renovated our house and we went for dinner with friends and paid our bills and went on vacations.
It has been five years since that day.
Long enough to know that this isn’t ruin.
When you say that they are ruined, you say that they can’t come back from this. You say that there is no hope and no redemption. They are, forever, broken.
Not broken, not ruined say we. Forever changed and forever missing their children, but not ruined.
So please, in the middle of this horror and pain, don’t use the word ruined. Because, when they are ready, there is a group of us who will help them try and crawl out of the hole. Just like others did for us. We will sit at the edge and wait, until they hold out their hand. And then we will tell them – what we did, what worked for us.
We will stare in their eyes and we will be unflinching. We will tell them that it will always hurt. The pain doesn’t go away. It is simply balanced, more distributed. It will not always hurt like this. It won’t always seem like this.
And a group of us, who have climbed from that hole, we know this isn’t ruin. We know that the universe that broke them, that dealt with them so brutally still holds sunshine and joy. We know that the universe will wait for them, will hold out the promise of better days.
We know that you can come back from this. We know that you have to. You aren’t ruined.
I am sobbing as I read this. Beautiful. So very beautiful and eloquently said.
You would know this better than I…and I am a nut for semantics, but perhaps the news people mean that their old life is over/changed forever and a new one must be forged? These shortcuts of language can cause so much extra unintended grief…
Amen.
What beautifully written words of sentiment. A friend of mine just lost their son this weekend, a police officer killed on duty, and I can only imagine their pain. Reading your words helps me know to where to be in this situation. I’m so sorry you had to lose your baby, but I’m happy to see the healing and the helping of others that has come after. Thank you on behalf of those you have helped.
I love this, Mrs. Spit. Thank you!
Beautiful.
I listen to Crash and Mars every morning on my drive into work. I too flinched when they used the word ruined.
It`s hard for anyone to imagine coming back from what we`ve been through. Hell, it`s still hard to me to imagine sometimes. I am reminded of it every time somebody says “you are so brave, I couldn`t have done what you do. I wouldn`t have coped.“ And so we live to be forever judged by peoples`expectations of how a bereaved parent should behave.
But they don`t know. They can only imagine. And if ruin is what they see, then maybe they are coming close to the truth – though they don`t know the battle we face every single day.
I love you, Mrs. Spit. Thank you for this.
Your words are perfect, as always.
Thank you for this. Your eloquence certainly helps me – who does not understand this particular pain – better comprehend what to say and what not to say.
wow. perfectly said. As I sit on the edge of the pit.
Well said.
Beautifully written. I’m feeling an intermittent sense of failure at my recent divorce and it applies to my situation as well.
I meant to drop by yesterday and let you know that I linked to this post here: http://mylifeafterloss.blogspot.com/2013/05/worn.html
Your words were just so moving and they deeply impacted me.
Beautiful post Mrs. S. you wrote everything in such a throughout and touching way. I tilt believe you have a way With words. I think you should send this to
Crash and Mars. Just a thought.
Worlds greatest Aunt and Uncle indeed! well said my love!