Loss
"He that conceals his grief finds no remedy for it." Turkish proverb
"Give sorrow words. The grief that does not speak whispers the o'er fraught heart, and bids it break" William Shakespeare
"If you suppress grief too much it can well redouble." Moliere
"The risk of love is loss, and the price of loss is grief. But the pain of grief is only a shadow when compared with the pain of never risking love." Hilary Stanton Zunin
"There is no grief like grief that does not speak." Henry Wadsworth Longfellow
This is going to be a heart-wide-open, raw and vulnerable entry; there will be no attempts made to dress up my emotions in their Sunday best and tie pretty ribbons around the truth nor is it dressed in rags for dramatic effect. It is real, it is pure, and it is honest.
Lately I have been dealing with a grief I have never experienced before, and a grief that is difficult to process or explain to others. I hurt deeply, ache as though my heart may fall apart, have times of feeling bitter anger, and at times am sadly resigned to the situation. I am mourning the loss of so much of my life, the things that brought me such joy and defined who I was as a person and shaped my existence, and the loss of countless dreams that are now forever out of reach. It is not just a loss of what was but a loss of what could have been, a loss of the past as well as the future. In many ways I feel like some part of me has died. I go on with my life, I have good days and days of laughter and treasured memories, but something is achingly absent like a part of me has been cauterized. I don't want that old self to die, I don't want to surrender those old dreams, I don't want to admit defeat and have to allow this to change my life forever when I was so blessedly happy before. For the past 18 months I was able to lie to myself and hold on to the illusion that there was still some chance that there would be a treatable, curable diagnosis identified and I would be able to resume the life I had been living as if it had just been put on pause for a while. Now that I have a diagnosis of Mitochondrial Disease, I have to accept that there is not only no cure but no treatment. That this is a progressive disorder which may continue to steal away parts of my life, continue to rob me of dreams, continue to deny me of aspects of life that I use to define myself. If I did not live my life full out, living in every moment, living with no regrets, living at 100% with passion I would not have so much to grieve, but then I would not have so much love in my life either. It hurts more because I live more, I push boundaries, I defy expectations and definitions, I play by my own rules and love openly - love life, love others, love God.
Yet I mourn so many losses. I mourn the loss of my independence, for I have always been fiercely and proudly independent. I miss being able to just decide to go somewhere, to go exploring or on a short day adventure and not be limited to the ability of others to transport me. I mourn the loss of my physical abilities. I will never again chase after my niece and scoop her up in my arms as she squeals in laughter. My feet will never feel the rocky ground beneath them as I hike up the side of a large hill, using my arms to pull myself upward. Kneeling on a tiled floor I will never again guide the feet of a child as they take their first tentative steps. I mourn the loss of many of the things that brought me great joy and served as ways by which I defined myself - my work as a teacher and a volunteer, my passion for photography (it is much harder to access places to photograph and the angle is different in a wheelchair), my love for nature and hiking and exploring. I mourn the dreams lost, large and small. Dreams of ever being allowed to provide foster care or adopt children (I long ago understood that I can not risk having children of my own), dreams of hiking parts of the Appalachian trail, dreams of missions trips, dreams of dancing someday at my wedding, dreams of classrooms full of children.
I recognize that I can, and am, creating new dreams and a new sense of self but for now I am still mourning what I lost. The wound where it was ripped away is still too tender and too fresh to withstand the abuses of life without pain. It takes time, it takes patience, it takes growth of those new dreams and that new hope, and it takes acceptance of the grief.
June 2, 2010 at 9:04 PM
Grieving with you from afar.
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