Abyss

Grief can be an abyss. A great, gaping chasm of emptiness, pain and suffering.  Sometimes you flounder around in the darkness unable to get a foothold or handhold. It doesn't matter what small progress you make, you eventually slide back down to the bottom with broken fingernails full of dirt. It's cold and lonely and very dark at the bottom. It's easy to lose hope. Perhaps you'll always be there. Perhaps you'll die there. 

The Great Chasm of grieving for a child sometimes feel like it has no depth or width. There is no time or space for it to begin and end. It is limitless and unquantifiable.

For the people who love you at the top, it may seem like you’ve been down there a long time. Shouldn’t you be making your way out by now?  Shouldn’t you have at least made some headway?  Surely there’s a ladder down there somewhere?

There is no ladder. There is no ‘right’ way. One day I’ll shimmy up the sides and feel the sun caress my face and the next I’ll curl up in the corner, exhausted from trying. Time will not heal but other grievers assure me, my brave Aunty Lyn one of them, that you won’t get over the abyss, but you’ll get through it. It will always be there. I’ll just get better at navigating it. 

I’m sorry if this analogy is depressing. For me, it’s why the words ‘One Day at a Time’ are so powerful. If I look at the potential length of my life and the amount of pain I will feel every day, it’s tempting to give up. But I can’t. I can’t give up for my family, my friends, myself and most of all, for Hamish. As incredible, amazing, wonderful as it would be to have him in my arms again. It’s not my time. I’m not sure why? Perhaps I have a plan, a higher purpose I have to fulfil. Perhaps my purpose is simple: learn to climb out of the Great Chasm of Grief.  It may be that simple, but I suspect it’s not. 

I miss Hamish. I miss him desperately. His laugh, his ever-shining light. It’s like someone blew out the candle in my life.  I said as much to my husband yesterday, who looked back at me with heart-broken eyes and said, “you will always miss him”.

Yesterday we drove 2 hours away to my grandparents farm to celebrate their 60th wedding anniversary. Yes, 60 years! A phenomenal amount of time to live, let alone spend it with one person. My grandparents are incredible people. Hard-working, honest, giving, loving people. They only see good in their family. They love unconditionally and they give all they have. I looked at them and realised they live their lives as they should.  No pretences, no fuss. Simply and honestly. I can learn a lot from them as I’m sure many could. They need each other and very little else. We couldn’t stay long as grief tires us easily but we gave our love and left. 

It makes me look at the stuff that surrounds me and realise I don’t need so much of it. I need to de-clutter, simplify. The problem is I look at the mountain of toys in the corner of the living room and think how can I give away the ones Hamish touched? The ones that made him smile? Should I? Could I?  I look at interior design magazines and pine for the minimalist spaces where things are simple, functional. There’s so much room to breathe. But there’s so much love in the stuff in our house. They invoke memories and nostalgia. 

I feel the same way about my house. It was Hami’s only home. It made him very happy. I ‘see’ him giggling down the hallway. I ‘see’ him chasing his brother around the kitchen. I ‘see’ his little face popping up beside me in bed. But I also see the horror, the tragedy, the nightmare. It’s a double-edged sword living here.

Today, the rain is relentless and I like it. The sky is soaking the ground with its tears. It’s been too hot and sunny of late. It feels wrong to see the sky dazzle on the hard days. Today I won’t try and scramble out of my abyss. It feels warm and necessary today. Maybe I’ll climb out tomorrow.

Thanks for listening.