Though I'm from tornado country not earthquake country, I'm familiar with the idea of aftershocks. I've heard that aftershocks are more dangerous and intense than the earthquakes themselves -- the event itself isn't as life-changing as that which comes after.
In the span of the past few weeks, we've had the increasingly softer aftershocks of anniversaries of major events: the anniversaries of 9/11 and Katrina, for example. They are full of pain, but as I watch the children around me grow older, both become more "This day in history" events and less an event that stopped our hearts. And there have been new earthquakes: Gustav and Ike battering our southern shores. Meanwhile, my mother, my sisters, and I are embarking on a series of aftershocks of our own.
This week marks the one-year anniversary of a sequence of events that took us from "the beloved of a man with cancer" to those who remain after his death. Each day between now and the second week of October is marked by anniversaries -- small and large aftershocks of a stunning event. Some of them are good. Very good. And some of them are horrible.
In the past year, while my siblings have spent their time weaving their grieving of David in the tremendous space his absence has left, I have not. I'm only now feeling the massive emptiness that remains. It is not as though David's death has gone unacknowledged here -- but as we have lived 500 miles away for several years, David's absence hasn't woven itself into my dailiness. The aftershocks are hitting. And they are massive.
Our family is coming to accept that some think it's easier after the first year. The first holidays without, the searing pain of the immediate loss -- most people think that these fade in the first year and those who suffered loss should now begin to pick up the pieces, to move on.
What many of them don't understand is that the intensity of this loss doesn't really fade. I think that rather than thinking of it as an aftershock, I liken it to losing a limb. I don't think that a person who loses a limb ever "moves on." I think that they always feel the phantom pain and a peculiar sense of absence. Eventually they adjust. They might even get a new limb. But I doubt that they ever "move on."
As my sisters, my mother, and I embark on this next two weeks of anniversaries, of aftershocks, of phantom pain, I hope that those around us understand.
One year and three days ago, David preached his last sermon. He sang "Love and Marriage."
One year ago today, David received news that the cancer was winning.
364 days ago, David had an operation to extend his life.
354 days ago, David was taken off of life-extending medications, our family played cards into the night, and camped in his room. We hadn't all bunked in the room like that since our trip to Washington, DC in 1993. My sister and I huddled on our roll-away and listened to Sufjen Stevens songs. David, his wife, and his three girls spent a last night, just us. No monitors. No doctors. Just us.
353 days ago, I watched the sunrise over an Omaha skyline and witnessed one of the most amazing and most stunningly painful events in my life.
Eight days later, we mourned David among hundreds of voices lifted up to honor him in the best way possible: We pulled all the stops out on the organ, we stopped crying long enough to sing, and we were held up by faith, hope, and love and a community of people whose lives were touched by one man.
I can only hope that the aftershocks of him and not the aftershocks of his death resound with everyone else this week. I do not want or need them to remember these individual moments. But I hope they stop for a moment in the next two weeks and allow themselves to acknowledge that phantom pain - a real and significant loss to the world. As a friend of mine said David's a good man. The world needs more not fewer of them.
In the span of the past few weeks, we've had the increasingly softer aftershocks of anniversaries of major events: the anniversaries of 9/11 and Katrina, for example. They are full of pain, but as I watch the children around me grow older, both become more "This day in history" events and less an event that stopped our hearts. And there have been new earthquakes: Gustav and Ike battering our southern shores. Meanwhile, my mother, my sisters, and I are embarking on a series of aftershocks of our own.
This week marks the one-year anniversary of a sequence of events that took us from "the beloved of a man with cancer" to those who remain after his death. Each day between now and the second week of October is marked by anniversaries -- small and large aftershocks of a stunning event. Some of them are good. Very good. And some of them are horrible.
In the past year, while my siblings have spent their time weaving their grieving of David in the tremendous space his absence has left, I have not. I'm only now feeling the massive emptiness that remains. It is not as though David's death has gone unacknowledged here -- but as we have lived 500 miles away for several years, David's absence hasn't woven itself into my dailiness. The aftershocks are hitting. And they are massive.
Our family is coming to accept that some think it's easier after the first year. The first holidays without, the searing pain of the immediate loss -- most people think that these fade in the first year and those who suffered loss should now begin to pick up the pieces, to move on.
What many of them don't understand is that the intensity of this loss doesn't really fade. I think that rather than thinking of it as an aftershock, I liken it to losing a limb. I don't think that a person who loses a limb ever "moves on." I think that they always feel the phantom pain and a peculiar sense of absence. Eventually they adjust. They might even get a new limb. But I doubt that they ever "move on."
As my sisters, my mother, and I embark on this next two weeks of anniversaries, of aftershocks, of phantom pain, I hope that those around us understand.
One year and three days ago, David preached his last sermon. He sang "Love and Marriage."
One year ago today, David received news that the cancer was winning.
364 days ago, David had an operation to extend his life.
354 days ago, David was taken off of life-extending medications, our family played cards into the night, and camped in his room. We hadn't all bunked in the room like that since our trip to Washington, DC in 1993. My sister and I huddled on our roll-away and listened to Sufjen Stevens songs. David, his wife, and his three girls spent a last night, just us. No monitors. No doctors. Just us.
353 days ago, I watched the sunrise over an Omaha skyline and witnessed one of the most amazing and most stunningly painful events in my life.
Eight days later, we mourned David among hundreds of voices lifted up to honor him in the best way possible: We pulled all the stops out on the organ, we stopped crying long enough to sing, and we were held up by faith, hope, and love and a community of people whose lives were touched by one man.
I can only hope that the aftershocks of him and not the aftershocks of his death resound with everyone else this week. I do not want or need them to remember these individual moments. But I hope they stop for a moment in the next two weeks and allow themselves to acknowledge that phantom pain - a real and significant loss to the world. As a friend of mine said David's a good man. The world needs more not fewer of them.
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