All kinds of grief

Everybody grieves differently.

That's the first thing they tell you after your child dies. I know one woman whose son died the same time as Crista (a year and a half ago) who still tears up, who still misses her son but who admits that most of the time she is okay. Another mother has been living this nightmare for two years, and she still takes Valium and Prozac just to get by. She also attends counseling and depression classes.

Me? I feel as if something has been ripped from my heart, leaving a huge crevasse of black in the space where my future should be.

Sometimes when I actually realize that Crista is no longer on this planet, I gasp with can only be called horror. Then I plunge into that darkness.

I woke up this morning thinking about how detached I was from death and grief before Crista left. I was thinking about my stepdaughter's friend. His name was Nick, and she was crazy about him. They were extremely close. Nick died in a climbing accident. Kristi was devastated. She still gets sad when she thinks about it, and it's been almost a decade. What struck me about my memory was how insensitive I was to Kristi's grief. I mean, I cared. My heart ached for her. But I had no idea how deeply bereft she felt. Now I know.

My niece Debbie's husband was killed on a motorcycle accident a few years back. I attended the funeral. I cried for Debbie. But until my own experience, I had no idea what she was going through, still is. On Thanksgiving eve, she and I talked for a long while about the fickle path our sorrow moves. For the first time since Steve's death, I understood the depth of her loss. I can't believe it took me so long.

When someone you love dies, counselors tell you you will eventually become strong and confident. They tell you there will be gifts. That's just wrong. But it's true. I'm beginning to see that the empathy I feel for these beautiful young women, whom I love enormously, is a gift, albeit a strange one.

At this stage, I suppose that has to be enough.