The Unspeakable Spoken

“How are you doing?”

Simultaneously, my most dreaded and desired question.

On one hand, what can I possibly say that captures the nuance and depth, the constant and elusive flow of emotions I feel every single day after losing my son?

Grief and trauma of this magnitude are exhausting. It is also annoyingly difficult to pinpoint because it shape shifts. Hiding, lurking, waiting one moment. Pouncing, demanding, screaming the next. How can I distill all of it down into the brief response I know many expect to hear with such a common greeting?

On the other hand, I so appreciate you asking and how much time do you have? Because I desperately want to get all the thoughts swirling around inside my head out in the open and it might take a minute.

It takes a minute to explain the tears that unexpectedly streamed down my face as I listened to celebratory toasts at my friend’s birthday party. Her son’s toast had a humorous and simple sign-off: “Love, your favorite son.” It caught me off guard and hit me in a place I didn’t know existed.

Or how last week on our camping trip, I couldn’t help but smile at an adorable family in a neighboring campsite playing a game of hide-and-seek in the woods. Just as I was about to say how sweet it was to see, the words got stuck in my throat realizing that it will never be us- at least not with the entirety of our family.

Or to unravel the deeply triggering experience of taking our dog, Sadie, in for an emergency vet visit. The all-too-familiar flood of painful feelings- the helplessness, the fear, the waiting, the unknown, the oh-too-close reminders of what could wait ahead. (She’s ok, by the way.)

Most often, I say something to the tune of “We’re doing good. Some days are better than others.” Because that’s grief in a nutshell, right? But the truth is that I hate giving that brief summary because the words feel trite in comparison to the richness of emotion and depth of sorrow sitting in my soul.

I’ve experienced several traumatic losses in my lifetime – of precious individuals taken far too soon from this world. And what I know to be true is that this type of grief is a gift curse. It is brutally painful and yet brings incredible clarity and perspective.

While I would, in an instant, trade whatever bits of wisdom have been gained thus far to have my son here with us now, I also understand that my heart’s expansion after his life and death has made me a more full person, a richer person. And for that, I am grateful. Because I know, without question, that Gibson makes me a better person every single day. A more loving, more empathetic, more full human. One capable of holding the tension of both sorrow and joy so tightly within my chest. One capable of finding ways to offer more compassion and understanding to myself and others. One that can feel gratitude deeply even in the most unbearable pain.

I know from experience that the acuity of this moment won’t last forever. Grief morphs over time, and with it, the lessons learned often fade against the demands of daily life. However, I also know that there is not a single day when he won’t come to mind and because of that, he is within reach if I need to be with him. Even when those memories bring pain, those moments of connection are a gift – a reminder of what matters most.

People often say in times like this that God has a purpose for everything. While I can understand the sentiment behind this statement, what I wish was said instead to those who are grieving is that God can help us find purpose in everything. And that he is capable of building beautiful meaning in our lives, even when we are the most broken.

This is the journey that I’m now on. To find all the beautiful ways I can honor Gibson by allowing him to bring meaning to my life. It’s a path that I suspect will take more than my lifetime to fully appreciate and understand.

And sometimes it will be really hard, but that’s okay. Because I’m mostly doing good, though some days are better than others.

Thank you for asking.