In January, 1987, my husband and I became members
of a very exclusive club. We had been only vaguely aware of its
existence, and we thought that surely a chapter in a city the
size of ours wouldn't have many members.
We
had seen a few people who belonged to the club, but we didn't
seem to have anything in common with them, so we didn't really
get to know them. Occasionally, we read stories in the newspaper
about new members being initiated into the club, but it didn't
seem likely that we would ever be eligible to join, so we paid
no attention.
The
price of membership is so dear that we couldn't imagine being
a part of the club. We must have realized in the backs of our
minds that people didn't choose to join and pay the dues--it was
done for them somehow. In fact, no one really has any idea of
how members are selected. There are a lot of theories; but much
of the time, the theories come from non-members who don't understand
much about the situation.
The
"club" we are now in (although it is not an organized
group), is known as "bereaved parents." The cost of
our membership was the life of our son; and we, like all other
members, have no idea why we were selected for membership.
No
one wants to be in this club. Even now, months afterward, inside
our hearts and minds we continue to fight membership, but there
is no resigning from it. It is an automatic lifetime membership.
There was no way to avoid it--we did the best we could to keep
our son safe. For fourteen years, we guided him through dangers,
only to have him die in a seemingly minor auto accident. Though
we lay awake night after night, and think of it day after day,
there is no answer as to why we have been thrust into this select
group. We hate it and we cry out in protest, but there is no way
to change it.
We
have learned a lot since our membership began. We now understand
much about the other members. In fact, we seek to be with them,
to have regular get-togethers, to discuss our membership, and
try to understand its value.
Sometimes,
those outside the club are afraid of us, fearing that if they
come near us or talk with us, they will be selected to become
members too! Acquaintances often try to ignore the membership,
pretending that it doesn't exist. They seem to think that will
make things easier, and then the members won't feel "different,"
but it really only makes things much worse.
So
many times, I have wanted someone to say hello or to tell me she
has been thinking of me or to mention something about the absent
child who still lives inside me and overshadows all my thoughts.
I have heard people say, "I don't want to upset her, or remind
her of her son, or say something that will make her cry."
I
want to tell them: "The only way you can make me feel worse
than I already do is to pretend that he doesn't exist or that
it isn't as deep and painful as you surely know it is.
Have you ever experienced the feeling of having one terrible incident
go through your mind, day after day, week after week, month after
month, wondering why it happened and how you could have prevented
it? Well, don't worry about reminding me of my son. I am thinking
about him nearly twenty-four hours a day.
"Sure,
sometimes my mind is temporarily distracted--it would have to
be to function at all. But if you think there is even one day
that goes by without my child's death tearing up my heart, then
you have no idea what this club is all about.
"I
appreciate your talking about my child, or at least letting me
talk about him. He was a very large part of my life, and ignoring
him now will really hurt me. It makes me think that you feel he's
no longer important because he's gone. It hurts to think that
people don't want to think about him or remember good things about
him, just because he has died.
"I
understand that you don't want to say anything that will make
me cry. That sounds kind, and I used to feel that way too, but
now I know better. I'd rather the tears didn't come when you talk
to me because I know they may scare you away, or at least make
you very uncomfortable. But I've learned how useful and necessary
they are. If I go too long without tears, my body builds up a
terrible pressure from the pain of the grief. If you will allow
me to cry in your presence, perhaps I won't have to cry alone,
wondering if anyone else remembers, or even cares, about my loss.
"You
can't know what will make me cry--sometimes I don't know, myself.
Some days I stay dry-eyed through nearly everything. Other days,
the slightest thing will start the tears--things you could not
possibly imagine or anticipate. Not all the tears are tears of
sorrow. Even in the midst of my anguish, I sometimes cry tears
of joy and relief because you have reached out; because you have
confirmed that my son was special; perhaps because you have shared
with me some precious memory about him which I had not known before.
"Please
don't run away from me. Don't pretend his death never occurred,
or even worse, that he never lived! I still love him, think of
him, need to remember. Please share with me and we will both feel
better.
"I
am learning that God is not punishing me. He did not cause the
death of my son. But, He can help me to grow through this experience--to
become stronger and wiser and more caring, if I have some help.
Initially, when I was told by a church member that I would change
and grow stronger through this experience, I wanted to scream
that if it meant giving up my son, I didn't want to change or
get stronger. But I know I have no choice about that now--he is
gone. Now my choices are to either let God, and friends, help
me; or I can choose to allow this grief to destroy me."
I
have to experience the grief. I can't pretend it doesn't hurt,
or hurry it along. That's what membership in this club is teaching
me. I am choosing to allow God to take an unspeakable experience
and use it to start life again.
