Really? Really?
Does time heal all wounds, including grief, or does it just drive them deeper into one's heart? I erased all my previous posts in a moment of deep discontentment and sadness over another's reactions to a testimony to George's suffering and death.
Why? Because, personal perceptions dictate how truth is viewed and remembered. And, their perception was tragically flawed, giving lie to all that George endured.
My purpose and desire is that the real truth of how George suffered and why he chose to die is never lost or forgotten. To do so would dishonor his courage, his efforts to find a way to cure his MS or at least halt its progression. To forget what he endured is to ignore and repress what so many others are truly suffering with this disease, this MS, this Multiple Scarring of once healthy minds and bodies.
I describe my grief as a form of dis-ease, just like having a chronic, debilitating disorder like MS. It is an undercurrent that never goes away. No, it does not paralyze me nor take away my abilities to lead a normal physical life. But, like MS, it changes my brain. Grief sucks the zest from life. It appears whenever it wants, right before falling asleep, seeing a man whose haircut reminds me of George, hearing his son 's voice telling me what he is doing, and on and on. In other words, it takes over my life, fooling me into thinking I am doing fine and then slamming me into a funk of despair.
MS does that all the time to those who have it. It is beyond comprehension that observers think that MS is all about not walking or having a little numbness. The MS society shows magazine covers of pretty healthy looking people just having a great time as they beam from their wheelchairs or bike for charity or lead such a nice well managed life. MS and BS go together like peanut butter and jelly. Now, how do you think that picture got painted?????
Back to grief. It is a combination of despair, deep longing, dreadful unending missing for the touch, company, voice of my beloved son. Grief is filled with confusion as I examine all the philosophies and religious concepts that deal with the possible after life. Mostly, it is a yearning for my life to be what it was once, when my son was alive and healthy.
Grief gives no quarter. There is no answer to the why, the never ending trauma of remembering the indignities and sorrow and finally, finally, seeing the moment as the light of hope left George's eyes. It is remembering how he accepted that his life would never be what it was, that he would continue to be dependent, ill, in pain and emotionally isolated. Grief encompasses much... but mostly it aches with the waste of a truly beloved and sweet man's life.
I don't want to hear that there is a lesson to be learned. I look at George's picture when he was vibrant, healthy, purposeful. Then, I look at his picture when he was bedridden, paralyzed, struggling to cope with all his losses, especially not to be the Dad he wanted to be for his kids. It makes no sense.
Yes, each milestone, each month, each occasion etches another notch of hurt and pain into my soul. Forget my heart, that was ravaged from the day he was diagnosed. So, nine months into mourning, one birthday, Thanksgiving and now Christmas to remember that he is gone and there ain't one thing I can do about it.
Really...time heals? Really? Really? Just ask me if you want to hear my truth. Really....
Does time heal all wounds, including grief, or does it just drive them deeper into one's heart? I erased all my previous posts in a moment of deep discontentment and sadness over another's reactions to a testimony to George's suffering and death.
Why? Because, personal perceptions dictate how truth is viewed and remembered. And, their perception was tragically flawed, giving lie to all that George endured.
My purpose and desire is that the real truth of how George suffered and why he chose to die is never lost or forgotten. To do so would dishonor his courage, his efforts to find a way to cure his MS or at least halt its progression. To forget what he endured is to ignore and repress what so many others are truly suffering with this disease, this MS, this Multiple Scarring of once healthy minds and bodies.
I describe my grief as a form of dis-ease, just like having a chronic, debilitating disorder like MS. It is an undercurrent that never goes away. No, it does not paralyze me nor take away my abilities to lead a normal physical life. But, like MS, it changes my brain. Grief sucks the zest from life. It appears whenever it wants, right before falling asleep, seeing a man whose haircut reminds me of George, hearing his son 's voice telling me what he is doing, and on and on. In other words, it takes over my life, fooling me into thinking I am doing fine and then slamming me into a funk of despair.
MS does that all the time to those who have it. It is beyond comprehension that observers think that MS is all about not walking or having a little numbness. The MS society shows magazine covers of pretty healthy looking people just having a great time as they beam from their wheelchairs or bike for charity or lead such a nice well managed life. MS and BS go together like peanut butter and jelly. Now, how do you think that picture got painted?????
Back to grief. It is a combination of despair, deep longing, dreadful unending missing for the touch, company, voice of my beloved son. Grief is filled with confusion as I examine all the philosophies and religious concepts that deal with the possible after life. Mostly, it is a yearning for my life to be what it was once, when my son was alive and healthy.
Grief gives no quarter. There is no answer to the why, the never ending trauma of remembering the indignities and sorrow and finally, finally, seeing the moment as the light of hope left George's eyes. It is remembering how he accepted that his life would never be what it was, that he would continue to be dependent, ill, in pain and emotionally isolated. Grief encompasses much... but mostly it aches with the waste of a truly beloved and sweet man's life.
I don't want to hear that there is a lesson to be learned. I look at George's picture when he was vibrant, healthy, purposeful. Then, I look at his picture when he was bedridden, paralyzed, struggling to cope with all his losses, especially not to be the Dad he wanted to be for his kids. It makes no sense.
Yes, each milestone, each month, each occasion etches another notch of hurt and pain into my soul. Forget my heart, that was ravaged from the day he was diagnosed. So, nine months into mourning, one birthday, Thanksgiving and now Christmas to remember that he is gone and there ain't one thing I can do about it.
Really...time heals? Really? Really? Just ask me if you want to hear my truth. Really....
