The nature of loss and grief has many dimensions but some are clearly more supported and easily addressed than are others.
By Susan Creamer Joy - Saturday 10 Sep 2011
On my bedroom dresser lays a brittle rose long ago withdrawn of life. I hesitate to touch it lest one petal should crumble into burgundy dust. Already over a year old, it was given to me by my son the last time I was able to kiss his cheek in gratitude and feel his massive arms about me in that awkward, apologetic embrace common of sons whose love for their mothers often exceeds their ability to prove it. That was on the eve of his arrest.
I have read a great deal about losses this week as so many are remembering the horrific events that took place in The United States ten years ago on September 11th and I find myself viscerally grieving despite the fact that I was not among those whose personal losses came in unison on that brilliantly bright and clear New York morning.
I don’t suppose that grief and loss are qualified under only one banner or that they suspend time any differently for those of us whose suffering has other roots but which has, nevertheless, made our association with those sad estates undeniably real.
We all hold our breath with the same force of will when confronted by uncompromising sorrow and, driven by the same intuitive need to survive, exhale only out of necessity. Often, it is these instinctive motions that are all we have to carry us forward. Sometimes this remains so for years.
I find myself considering the touchstones of loss and how often they are triggered within each day for those among us who are forced to sequester abiding grief to some small corner of consciousness while we politely continue to court the relentless progress of time. We often forget that there is so much bravery behind the most casual smile.
I did not lose a loved one on September 11th. However, that was the last time my family had been truly intact and the last time we experienced any semblance of normal. Not long after that fateful day my son began his ardent love affair with pharmaceutical escape and began to disappear; so, in many respects, I have countenanced the intervening years with the same acute sense of loss as have thousands of others.
Of course, my loss is different. My son is alive, and although he is now in a state penitentiary, there is the knowledge that he will one day be released along with the hope that he will conduct himself rightly when he is; and it is that hope which daily counsels my heart against a more embittered form of despair.
Still, there are no sureties in this, nothing that guarantees his liberation from a mindset of self-loathing or from his learned propensity to combat his demons by any means necessary including those enriched with lies and populated by illicit acts. There is nothing that whispers to me that all will be well. There is only the promise in the possibility of his emotional restoration and healing and as dubious as that may be based on his past choices, it is all that I have.
There are days when I struggle to understand and to carry the weighty load of this reality and envy those whose grief is burrowed in those losses which are dignified by death. To most this is an appalling sentiment, that I would find anything at all to envy about losses so utterly and irredeemably permanent; but in spite of my best efforts to the contrary, it recurs as an occasional conviction.
What the bereaved mourners of the dead seem entitled to that those of us whose losses are stained with the moral illegitimacies of brokenness do not is dignity. Felonious misdeeds tend not to evoke much compassion from those not intimately connected in some way. To lose a child to death, even one by suicide or substance abuse, elicits sympathy and comfort from others. There is relief that is supported by a common empathy for the ultimate end that we all share and we are bolstered by that collective understanding.
To lose a child to his own mendacity, further couched among the additional degradations implied by his status within the penal system, holds no such soft landing. There is no measure of pride or dignity in shouldering this tarnished truth and what honor is possible remains just that, a possibility, until his sentence of internment is complete and fate provides an opportunity for redemption.
Yet the touchstones that remind us of our losses and trigger our grieving remain the same: An article of clothing; a favorite song or movie; a type of day; a glimpse of someone walking down the street with the same build, the same gait; a similar laugh heard in the middle of a party; a birthday or holiday; a photograph or letter and; worst of all, the dark bones of emptiness that greet us when awakened in the middle of the night.
Those things are universal. What is withheld from those of us whose grieving has become a protracted dance between humiliation and fortitude is simply the permission to resume our lives with a sense of worthiness and respect. There is a slumbering penitence that awakens in every conversation and collides with the facts causing every inquiry or circumstance that glances the truth to ignite a deep shame that burns like hot coals. These collisions often come when you are least prepared for them.
I had one today. An earlier letter I had written to my son was returned to me and listed in large, red letters replete with exclamation marks across the front it read:
REFUSED!
CENSORED BY THE KANSAS STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
RETURN TO SENDER!
INAPPROPRIATE MATERIAL!
How my letter, some copied crossword puzzles from the daily newspaper and a copy of something I wrote celebrating the 80th birthday of his grandfather could have been construed as being ‘inappropriate material’ is beyond me; although I can only guess at what our mail carrier must have been thinking. The debasement surrounding this particular type of loss is exposed to far more people than you could ever imagine all without my ever saying a word and on my less stoic days, brings me to tears because of the judgment that invariably seems to follow. Such judgment rarely accompanies death because even under the darkest circumstances, death is usually considered punishment enough.
Sacrifice and loss have many forms and dimensions and I don’t know that we can ever fully grasp the correct way to shoulder any kind no matter how squarely they sit among our days. The best we can do is to exhale and to allow the days following our loss to inform us of the hidden necessity and relevance of those that came before and to assure that we take from all of them the opportunity to deepen our resolve and our faith. In addition to love, suffering is the great unifier of humanity and a vital agent of wisdom; but like anything worth attaining, we have to consciously seek these things out among the wreckage in our hearts.
Grief and suffering seldom profit from harsh scrutiny or judgment. They are, perhaps, among the few human conditions that benefit almost exclusively from compassion and are measurably lessened when shared with others; and while the restoration of dignity for myself and for my family may be a long way off, we share with everyone the struggle to bear well our loss and to trust that enough grace will abide within us to make that possible.
I have read a great deal about losses this week as so many are remembering the horrific events that took place in The United States ten years ago on September 11th and I find myself viscerally grieving despite the fact that I was not among those whose personal losses came in unison on that brilliantly bright and clear New York morning.
I don’t suppose that grief and loss are qualified under only one banner or that they suspend time any differently for those of us whose suffering has other roots but which has, nevertheless, made our association with those sad estates undeniably real.
We all hold our breath with the same force of will when confronted by uncompromising sorrow and, driven by the same intuitive need to survive, exhale only out of necessity. Often, it is these instinctive motions that are all we have to carry us forward. Sometimes this remains so for years.
I find myself considering the touchstones of loss and how often they are triggered within each day for those among us who are forced to sequester abiding grief to some small corner of consciousness while we politely continue to court the relentless progress of time. We often forget that there is so much bravery behind the most casual smile.
I did not lose a loved one on September 11th. However, that was the last time my family had been truly intact and the last time we experienced any semblance of normal. Not long after that fateful day my son began his ardent love affair with pharmaceutical escape and began to disappear; so, in many respects, I have countenanced the intervening years with the same acute sense of loss as have thousands of others.
Of course, my loss is different. My son is alive, and although he is now in a state penitentiary, there is the knowledge that he will one day be released along with the hope that he will conduct himself rightly when he is; and it is that hope which daily counsels my heart against a more embittered form of despair.
Still, there are no sureties in this, nothing that guarantees his liberation from a mindset of self-loathing or from his learned propensity to combat his demons by any means necessary including those enriched with lies and populated by illicit acts. There is nothing that whispers to me that all will be well. There is only the promise in the possibility of his emotional restoration and healing and as dubious as that may be based on his past choices, it is all that I have.
There are days when I struggle to understand and to carry the weighty load of this reality and envy those whose grief is burrowed in those losses which are dignified by death. To most this is an appalling sentiment, that I would find anything at all to envy about losses so utterly and irredeemably permanent; but in spite of my best efforts to the contrary, it recurs as an occasional conviction.
What the bereaved mourners of the dead seem entitled to that those of us whose losses are stained with the moral illegitimacies of brokenness do not is dignity. Felonious misdeeds tend not to evoke much compassion from those not intimately connected in some way. To lose a child to death, even one by suicide or substance abuse, elicits sympathy and comfort from others. There is relief that is supported by a common empathy for the ultimate end that we all share and we are bolstered by that collective understanding.
To lose a child to his own mendacity, further couched among the additional degradations implied by his status within the penal system, holds no such soft landing. There is no measure of pride or dignity in shouldering this tarnished truth and what honor is possible remains just that, a possibility, until his sentence of internment is complete and fate provides an opportunity for redemption.
Yet the touchstones that remind us of our losses and trigger our grieving remain the same: An article of clothing; a favorite song or movie; a type of day; a glimpse of someone walking down the street with the same build, the same gait; a similar laugh heard in the middle of a party; a birthday or holiday; a photograph or letter and; worst of all, the dark bones of emptiness that greet us when awakened in the middle of the night.
Those things are universal. What is withheld from those of us whose grieving has become a protracted dance between humiliation and fortitude is simply the permission to resume our lives with a sense of worthiness and respect. There is a slumbering penitence that awakens in every conversation and collides with the facts causing every inquiry or circumstance that glances the truth to ignite a deep shame that burns like hot coals. These collisions often come when you are least prepared for them.
I had one today. An earlier letter I had written to my son was returned to me and listed in large, red letters replete with exclamation marks across the front it read:
REFUSED!
CENSORED BY THE KANSAS STATE CORRECTIONAL FACILITY
RETURN TO SENDER!
INAPPROPRIATE MATERIAL!
How my letter, some copied crossword puzzles from the daily newspaper and a copy of something I wrote celebrating the 80th birthday of his grandfather could have been construed as being ‘inappropriate material’ is beyond me; although I can only guess at what our mail carrier must have been thinking. The debasement surrounding this particular type of loss is exposed to far more people than you could ever imagine all without my ever saying a word and on my less stoic days, brings me to tears because of the judgment that invariably seems to follow. Such judgment rarely accompanies death because even under the darkest circumstances, death is usually considered punishment enough.
Sacrifice and loss have many forms and dimensions and I don’t know that we can ever fully grasp the correct way to shoulder any kind no matter how squarely they sit among our days. The best we can do is to exhale and to allow the days following our loss to inform us of the hidden necessity and relevance of those that came before and to assure that we take from all of them the opportunity to deepen our resolve and our faith. In addition to love, suffering is the great unifier of humanity and a vital agent of wisdom; but like anything worth attaining, we have to consciously seek these things out among the wreckage in our hearts.
Grief and suffering seldom profit from harsh scrutiny or judgment. They are, perhaps, among the few human conditions that benefit almost exclusively from compassion and are measurably lessened when shared with others; and while the restoration of dignity for myself and for my family may be a long way off, we share with everyone the struggle to bear well our loss and to trust that enough grace will abide within us to make that possible.