On Grief: Manifestations

“Death ends a life, not a relationship.”
Jack Lemon

Life is all about relationships. We are social beings—interconnected with one another on a level that is impossible to describe with any word other than spiritual. I remember reading somewhere or hearing in some lecture or another in college about how significantly we impact one another. The gist of the story goes (and forgive me professor if I get this wrong) something like this:

A man became disgusted with his failures in life. He never seemed to be able to reach his dreams or aspirations. In defeat he decided he would become a hermit and live on top of a nearby mountain. “I will completely remove myself from society,” he thought to himself. “I will no longer have any ill effect on my loved ones. No longer will they pay the price for my failures.”

And so he went. He took nothing but the clothes on his back and left, thinking he had done the world a great favor by removing himself from it. Little did he realize that his presence was still felt in the life he left behind. His wife longed for her husband, and his children lived the rest of their days missing their father. His employer, now short on manpower, found his business productivity slipping. What made matters worse was that now he had to take energy away from running his business to find a replacement. His coworkers had to double their efforts to make up for his loss. His neighbors had to spend time helping the man’s wife with maintaining her home—taking away from their own families.

Ultimately the man, who had intended only to better the lives of his loved ones by removing himself from the equation, only made things more difficult. Even in his absence, he was impacting those around him. The relationship went on—even without him there.

For me, the death of my daughter left my home without a physical presence. For weeks, and months, I would come home from work and still expect to see her sitting cross-legged on the area rug in the living room, playing with her favorite toy. Of course she was not there, and my heart would sink every time that realization manifested itself.

Our loved ones are gone, but our feelings, sensations, and memories are not. Depending on your religious persuasion, this can be beneficial to our healing during our bereavement. Whether you want to look at it as a message from the person we have lost, a reminder of things as they were, a memory, a wonderful coincidence, or complete garbage—its up to you. I will share this story with you, and you can draw your own conclusions.

About a month after the death of my daughter, I was back at work in the Juvenile facility assigned with supervising an activity. The children and I went for a walk from the facility proper, down to the nearby lake about a half-mile away. The sun was shining, and the grass seemed exceptionally green to me that day—all the vegetation for that matter. Everything seemed so much more vibrant. The sky was blue save for the few wisps of cloud that passed overhead—not even enough to make shadows in the early afternoon. Anything other than green blue or brown would have stood out like a sore thumb.

I was lamenting my daughter—how could I not be? It is a daily event. The walk down to the lake was quiet, save for the children’s laughter and conversation, which to my ears was pleasant. They didn’t engage me much. Our relationship was a respectful one, and they all understood that I had suffered a loss, and most had given me plenty of space. Because of this relationship I was able to enjoy the walk, the children’s company, and my memories all at the same time with little difficulty.
We spent some time at the waters edge. We picked up garbage and disposed of it in the large teal dumpster. One of the children found an old turtle shell, and fished it out of the water. Still another waded into the lake near the boat launch. All the while my heart grew heavy. The breeze from the water passed through the hole in my heart with a chill. I wanted to go back, but it wasn’t time. Eventually suppertime approached and we began our hike back up the hill to the facility.

The boys had worked up some energy on their little outing—the opposite effect that I had hoped for. The trip back was not as pleasant. They bickered and laughed, and teased and pushed each other in a spirited nature, as I plodded along behind them back up the same path that we had come. When some of the language being used by the boys began to deteriorate, I stopped and chided them. They looked in my direction, but I could see that their eyes were not on me, but below me. Thinking that I must have stepped in something, I looked down.

There between my feet was a vine that had worked its way from the thick brush alongside the path, into the short grass. At the end of the vine was a single, enormous, lavender blossom.

Now as I mentioned earlier, anything other than the green and brown of the vegetation, or the blue of the sky would have stood out like a sore thumb. The size and brilliance of this flower made it impossible to miss by any standard. I know people have told me that (if not in words, with their eyes) I was likely absorbed in thought on the walk down and was not paying any attention, but from my perception, there is simply no way for me to have missed that blossom on the walk down to the lake.

It simply had not been there before.

My daughter’s favorite color was lavender.

If we look hard enough we can easily see the manifestations of those we have lost. Whether it is a flower, a scent, or a memory, our relationship with that person endures. We carry on that relationship in a different form until our own death. Make no mistake about it—the loss of a child never goes away, but we will be happy again.