Losing someone dear is painful. Yet it is possible to find a piece of what has been lost and begin to heal.
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(In memory of my grandfather and in the memory of all those loved ones that are not with us anymore.)
“It has been said, ‘time heals all wounds.’ I do not agree. The wounds remain. In time, the mind, protecting its sanity, covers them with scar tissue and the pain lessens. But it is never gone.” ― Rose Kennedy
Kennedy’s words resonate perfectly with anyone who has lost a father, a mother, a brother, a sister, a grandparent, a friend, or anyone who added more meaning to their lives than they do themselves.
For the longest time, we can recall every morbid detail of that moment when they stopped being with us, with unsought clarity. It is etched in our minds – the time it was when we received the call that changed our life completely. Or when we were shaken awake in the middle of the night and no words had to be exchanged to understand it will never be the same again. The last moments we had spent with them. Their last smile. Their last words. The hollow look in the eyes of our family members as the ground beneath their feet slipped away.
We all try and hope for that day when it will hurt less.
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The loss of a loved one often leaves us wounded so deeply, it feels as if it may never heal. Even if it does, it seems the scar will remain forever. We all know that death is inevitable, but perhaps it is the irreversible nature of the situation, the finality of it all, the heart-wrenching loss, the overwhelming emotions or all of these things and more – that leave us broken in a manner that may be irreparable.
Everyone deals with loss differently. We all try and hope for that day when it will hurt less. Some bawl their eyes out. Some need an immediate change of place. Some become distant for a while. Some just shut themselves in their room for days. Some need constant company and reassurance. Some do everything fun under the sun just to see if they can feel happy again. Some decide to live a full life and end up making hasty decisions they may or may not regret. And believe it or not, sometimes the loss is the best thing to happen to some because they suddenly feel, ‘awakened’.
Now, everyone is entitled to deal with the loss in their way, but as long as they understand the need to ‘deal’ with it.
One approach that I can sincerely say does not work is an escapist’s strategy. Bottling it up and pretending that everything is the same is not going to change the situation. Not talking about it, hiding the pictures, and leaving the cupboard and other belongings untouched, will not mean it never happened.
I know because this is exactly what I did when I lost my grandfather.
Something always took me back to what had happened and the gush of emotions that I felt then, was paralysing.
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My grandfather was my mentor, my friend, my confidante; a man who loved me unconditionally and unabashedly called me his ‘favorite’ amongst all his grandkids. He was a genius, an educator, a man of wisdom and truly one of the brightest men of his time, times before, and those to come.
Not a day goes by when I don’t think of him or miss him but for the longest time, I did not want to talk about it, mourn it, accept it or deal with it. I was in denial. I did not want to accept the catastrophic effect of the circumstances. I did not want to believe that everything had turned upside down and our lives had been broken, irrevocably. I did not want to give it that power by acknowledging its devastating effect. I even fooled myself into believing that it was working. But something always took me back to what had happened and the gush of emotions that I felt then, was paralysing. Thankfully, an accidental epiphany taught me how to deal with this earth-shattering loss in a healthy, almost therapeutic way.
One day, I was looking for one of my books that I had lent my grandfather. I knew I needed to face my demons and go where I had not been for a long time – my grandfather’s room. I went with a very mission-centric approach. Aim: enter room, retrieve book, spend as little time as possible and get out! While I rummaged through the books with an almost aggressive speed, one fell on the floor. It was one of my granddad’s Sudoku books. It fell open onto the page where he had written a little note. We did that. We wrote little notes on the pages that evoked something in us – a pun, a metaphor, something happy, sad, quirky, and sometimes absolute nonsense too. But it personalised it, made it ours. I still do it.
But just when I thought it will drown me; came an unexpected sense of relief with a bagful of unexpected emotions.
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I remained glued to the floor just looking at it, for time unknown. I read and reread the note. It was nothing more than a few words about the troublesome nature of a particular puzzle. I ran my fingers on it, trying to feel the slight indentations that the ink had left, hoping for it to somehow connect me to its writer. An uncontrollable pain took over me. Its ruthless power engulfed me. But just when I thought it will drown me; came an unexpected sense of relief with a bagful of unexpected emotions. I was crying but I felt elated. I was laughing but I was sad. I felt the distance between us but also felt more connected. I sensed his loss but his memory strengthened. I felt pain but it was invigorating.
It was cathartic.
Since that day, whenever I miss him I go to his room to relive the times when he was around. Sometimes I read there, sometimes I go through his stuff — his fuzzy carpet slippers that say – I’m grumpy, his matching set of muffler and cap, his reading glasses, his ‘walking’ shoes, his big round pillow that is stiffer than stones! Eventually, most of his things were given away but we kept a few to hold onto his memory and perhaps his presence.
I also do things that would have made him happy or proud. I do things he would have done. I try and wake up early. I read more. I write. I try and do puzzles. I smile at strangers and try and help those who may have no one. I challenge my mind. I try to consistently learn and evolve. I try and enjoy what I have instead of mulling over what I want. I don’t always live in anticipation of what next and try and live in the moment. I enjoy the little things in life and count my blessings more. I try to see failures as stepping-stones to success. I try to live and not just exist.
It turns out that embracing the loss and acknowledging the frailty of life can be less shattering if we revel in the life they lived, rather than the absence we feel.
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And, in all this I have found peace. I feel the happy memories we shared, more strongly than the loss. All of these things keep him close to me without the shackles of negativity. It feels more like sunshine than never-ending rain. I feel lighter without having to let go of his memory. Instead of trying to delete the pain of his loss along with his memories and existence; he shines on through me bit by bit every day. And that perfectly commemorates his life, his lessons, his legacy and even his loss.
It still hurts but it is the good kind of pain. The kind that tells you, you are healing.
Burying the pain, hurt, the loss and with it – their life’s work and worth; sprouts nothing but negativity. The kind that roots itself deeply into your soul and the longer you nourish it, the harder it is to uproot. Let the pain wash over and when you do, you will come out the other side, renewed. The dark veil of despair, pain and the bad memories would have lifted and you will be able to bask in the warm glow of the good times –times that are gone but will be cherished, forever.
It turns out that embracing the loss and acknowledging the frailty of life can be less shattering if we revel in the life they lived, rather than the absence we feel.
I have begun to believe that the best way to memorialize a loved-and-lost one is to celebrate what they left behind – their legacy. The lessons they taught – learned. The truth they shared –believed. The guidance they imparted– imbibed. The love they shared, revered. The memories they left – preserved.
And, amidst all the loss and hurt, you get back a piece of what you thought had gone forever.
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I saw the article and it seemed long and when I read it, it seemed to have a hold on me. I could’ve visualize what you mentioned, besides your light weight writing that deals with such a heavy topic and renders it so raw, yet powerful. Kudos.
Love and loss go hand in hand. So I cherish the pain of missing those I’ve loved and lost. They live on with me in that pain. What I’m currently finding far harder is letting go and mourning the marriage that I thought I had. My wife’s come out to herself and to me as an asexual lesbian. I think that mourning her death would have been a simpler, shorter process than coming to terms with a sexless, desireless marriage, and having to create at this later stage of life an entirely new narrative that makes some sense of my… Read more »
I don’t think the sense of loss ever subsides completely, it just fades into the background noise as you accumulate more experiences throughout life. A fuzzy radio signal getting drowned out by road noise, that sort of thing.