Trying to Heal

Learning to Breath Underwater
Written by Andi Morice
April 2, 2008

I have been visiting many on-line grief groups and talking with other moms who have lost kids in the hope of finding out one single piece of information. All I want is a schedule, an expected time, a hope of seeing the finish line, a moment when this intense pain will end. I want them to tell me it took them a year, 2 years, 5 years – but some end guideline when I will be able to make it through a day without the anvil on my chest.

But not a one of them is cooperating. They are all in a conspiracy together. I know they know each other and have discussed their answer with each other. I know this definitively because they all keep saying the same thing.

They say, “It never ends”.

But how can that be? I am using all of my power and hope to get from the beginning of one day to the beginning of the next. How can I continue like this for the rest of my life? Everything is either intensely painful or at least has a very obvious hole. Each photo that doesn’t have him in it is blatantly empty and incomplete. Every vacation spot is no longer fun because he is not there. Every single moment screams, “Nick is not here.” So, I spend my energy trying to make new memories or run away from the thoughts in my head and I realize that is just as exhausting as trying to recreate him.

But one woman said something I completely rejected initially, but I’m beginning to see it’s true. It’s true and it has been my only help. She didn’t argue the point with me at the time. She must have known that eventually I’d try all other avenues only to come back around to where we had been standing together before.

She said the only way to help the healing is to “lean into the pain”. That didn’t even make much sense to me. Avoiding the pain is what I asking about and she’s talking about enduring more of it. What help would that be? So, I discredited her and went off to find the answer on my own. And once I was exhausted, I looked to see her suggestion still lying on the table and then decided to take the time to understand what she was saying.

Then I noticed that she was not asking me to feel more pain, but to stop running from it; to stop looking for the exit door; to stop assuming that if I hold my breath just a few moments longer I’ll find the surface and be able to take a breath.

What I have to do is learn to breath underwater.

It’s the reality that the pain won’t stop and the missing him won’t end - but the running can. Instead of trying to run from where he is, or even recreate him in every moment, allow my mind’s eye see him where it naturally wants to and enjoy the honesty of where he pops up “on his own”. It’s more similar to him being home and showing up when he wants to instead of when I will him to.

When I take a picture, instead of wincing at how blatant the hole is, stop and let myself see him there. See how he would stand, where he would put his arm, how he would smile and let myself enjoy the person who he still is. Or even better yet, realize that he’s not in the photo because he’s busy right now – he’s off playing with cats or babies and can’t take a break for a photo. Yes, I cry about it often, but even more often I find myself smiling and even letting out a single chuckle because I do know him so well that I know exactly what he’d do.

Instead of trying to stop the replay of the events in the hospital, I’ve learned to let them play through. Even see if I can remember more than last time the video played. It’s like my brain becomes bored that I’m not fighting anymore and it lets me alone. I see each person in the room; the care of the nurses, the concern of Glen knowing that our hearts were so broken, the tubes everywhere and how they ruined his beautiful hair, the sound of the respirator – these thoughts are the most painful of all - and then I remember … none of that matters now. He’s not there now. He’s fine now. Whether or not he was aware and conscience or when he gained or lost awareness doesn’t matter now. He’s not there now - so I don’t need to be there either.

For those of you who disagree with me, that’s OK. I was there, too. If you find another way down the road, come back and let me know. But I’m fairly confident that this group of woman who I have come to understand and agree with will one day include you, too. I hope it does so that we can count you among those who are “leaning and healing”.

I pray God blesses you as He has me.

Andi