Periodic Reflections on Grief and Loss
Holy Sonnets: Death, be not proud
BY JOHN DONNE
Death, be not proud, though some have called thee
Mighty and dreadful, for thou art not so;
For those whom thou think’st thou dost overthrow
Die not, poor Death, nor yet canst thou kill me.
From rest and sleep, which but thy pictures be,
Much pleasure; then from thee much more must flow,
And soonest our best men with thee do go,
Rest of their bones, and soul’s delivery.
Thou art slave to fate, chance, kings, and desperate men,
And dost with poison, war, and sickness dwell,
And poppy or charms can make us sleep as well
And better than thy stroke; why swell’st thou then?
One short sleep past, we wake eternally
And death shall be no more; Death, thou shalt die.
For Evan’s memorial service, I chose to wear an over-the-top white lace overcoat. It was a statement of defiance to the legions of the enemy and to death as well, I suppose. I wanted it to symbolize heaven.
A friend shared with me today that until Evan’s Memorial, he hadn’t felt that close to God’s presence in a long long time. He said that the service was thick with God’s presence and he felt heaven and earth merging so close together, when he saw me and Andrew choosing to worship.
This sentiment is comforting but also angering. I would rather, to be honest, be far from God on this earth and have my son back. I would not trade my son for anything. And yet, I also refuse to renounce the Lord.
My husband, Andrew, remarked that in the first throes of grief, I shivered and moaned in the same way that I had done when I was in labor. My sister then remarked that perhaps labor/physical pain pangs and grief pangs are interlinked in the same neural networks.
On Wednesday, I met up with a friend who had been bereaved by the loss of her husband ten years ago. She was the first one to tell me this heavy weight, this tension in my chest, will eventually go away. That was good news because I actually thought that I would have to live with this new pain in my chest forever.
I’ve been using an ADHD coping mechanism in the past 18 days – it’s counting in my head. (I’ve never been diagnosed with ADHD, but my brother has, and he has been sharing ADHD coping mechanisms with me because we believe I have ADHD-like tendencies. This is another blog post for another time!) I repeat the numbers 1 through 6 over and over in my head and it focuses me and calms me and brings me down from hyperventilating. It’s my way of regulating and I have been using it endlessly. I used to only use it when I was incredibly bored or in a bit of pain. Perhaps boredom and pain are the same for an ADHD brain. Regardless, without a better salve, it’s been my go-to. Through the day, I just count silently to myself. It’s brainless and it’s comforting and focusing in some weird way.
I wish that I could either live in the past or the future, but not in the present. It’s too close to the tragedy. I wish I could live before the tragedy, or way after, at least a year after, when the pain would theoretically no longer be so fresh and when the wound would no longer weep or ooze.
In mid-April, I fell off my bike and incurred several deep skin abrasions. The wound on my elbow was particularly deep and it remained open, weeping and oozing for four weeks straight. I don’t think I had ever in my life experienced an open wound like that. And now Evan has ripped a wound into my heart. So. The bike accident was a nice little prelude.
They say time heals all wounds, so the only balm that I have or will have coming to me, time, is the one thing that is totally out of my control.
My last burst of creativity was ten years ago, spurred on by an expected tragedy of a parishioner’s murder. Since then, I’ve been traveling through a creative and spiritual desert. Now, after the tragedy of Evans’ suicide, I’m being beckoned again by the resurgent muse of creativity. And I hate it. I would far prefer to trade the numbing reality of a spiritually dry existence in exchange for Evan’s return.
So I’m counting. I take deep breaths and I count because I guess that’s what makes time move forward. 1 2 3 4 5 6….this too shall pass…1 2 3 4 5 6
