Loss is something I had never really felt until almost five years ago--at least not deep down, painful-to-the-core loss. Sure there was loss when my kids left home, but I knew where they were going, what they were doing; and I was happy for each of them as they ventured off exploring the world unfolding before them. Their departures were something I had prepared for during their growing up years, but I had had no time to prepare for the life changing loss that occurred with my husband's admission of child molestation.
That loss, though sudden, took me a long time to feel or even recognize. I just kept on keeping on as if nothing had happened. I felt nothing even close to loss. In a confusing fog of "what in the world just happened?" and the dark clouds of "what do I do now?" I down shifted into survival gear. I might have been fooling myself into thinking I was superwoman and all was just fine, but I didn't fool very many others.
Even after writing some of my first therapy assignments about lost hopes and dreams, I didn't feel the losses I had written about. I didn't feel anything. As a result I had an extremely hard time even coming up with: an Alaskan cruise, more cross-country trips, increased prison ministry, backyard bonfires, and family camping. I didn't find them on the front burner of my things-to-do-stove. They weren't even placed on the back burner. They were completely removed from the stove; and I refused to let myself care they were gone. I also refused to even consider the possibility of ever having hopes and dreams again--even if they were God's hopes and dreams for me. Life had to be lived day by day. Just as I hadn't allowed any room for feeling anything during those days, especially loss, I allowed no room for "fantasy" either.
It wasn't until this summer that I really started feeling loss, emotional loss. I can stay alone for days at a time, but as I watched couples strolling the beaches and sidewalks in Maui I suddenly felt the pain of being without a mate, a companion, someone to hold hands with, cuddle with, and share my days with. Loss hit me between the eyes, not the loss of activities, events or ministries, but the loss of companionship and love. It hurt.
I dealt with the pain by ignoring it, then I moved on, that is until last weekend. That's when a neighborhood doe was shot and killed across the road from my house. (see my October 25th blog, "Goodbye, My Doe") Those few minutes of time shook me to the core. I wanted to cry. I wanted to scream. I wanted someone to hold me, but my family was all out of town. I sent texts to them. They quickly replied with "Oh no" and "I'm sorry, Mom". It helped a little. But in the death of a creature who had been a substitute companion for two years, I once again felt the pain of loss. And again it hurt.
So, having given "loss" much thought as I lie sprawled out on my couch and the weeks drag on, I have slowly realized another loss, that of independence. As I said earlier, I don't mind being alone for days at a time. What I didn't realize was the fact that I always had the ability to go whenever or if ever I wanted to. Now that option is gone. I cannot go anywhere outside my home without asking for a ride. I don't like it.
I pray that this time spent healing, no matter how long it is, will leave an indelible impression on my mind of what shut-ins must feel, of the frustration and needs of those who can no longer drive, or walk for that matter. It's so hard.
An indelible impression sounds great and wonderful, but it sure doesn't help anyone. What good will it do? Will I do something? Is there a call from the Lord here? I don't know right now.
There is a lot I don't know right now, but I know this. It is important to appreciate what I now have, and give thanks for it. It is important to appreciate the family and friends who surround me, and tell them so. Even more importantly, they need to know I love them--not just by actions, but by words. I really don't want it to be another loss that brings my many blessings into sharper focus.
Have a God night. I plan to.
I love you, Jan
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