When Does It Get Better?

A newly bereaved parent recently asked me, when does it get better—when was I able to laugh again? Everyone heals at their own pace, I told her. For me, I experienced a shift in my perceptions at the year mark. I began to see shades of gray, rather than just the all-encompassing blacks of despair and denial mixed with the red shades of anger. In two years, I caught glimpses of blue skies, and at three years, I observed a double rainbow arcing over Nik’s memorial garden. I felt like I could reach out and touch the gentle pastels. The world, I realized, was still beautiful.

Unfortunately, the empty void, the null presence, never goes away. Nothing can replace the child that dies. But the rough roller coasterride smoothes out along the way. At first, I’d wake up everyone morning howling in despair. Those howls turned into sobs, which appeared anywhere, anytime, with or without my permission. I didn’t want to be seen in public, and when I did make a trip to town, I put on my “I’m fine” mask, which chafed my skin, burned my heart, and exhausted me. Nik died more than 5 years ago, and the mask now sits on a shelf in the music room, covered with a fine layer of dust.

The void still rears its ugly head. I’ll hear a song that reminds me of Nik, wear his apron when I bake, or see a young man that looks as handsome as my boy. My heart skips a beat, and those tears, that I know longer fear, grace my cheeks with moisture. I pause, and slip into the regrets and the missing. But it passes.

I remind myself everyday of my son’s courage, and when I find myself lacking that quality, I tell myself to honor my son with courageous behavior. As a result, I am doing things I always dreamed of, but never engaged in because of fear. Because of my son, I had the courage to learn the banjo and an assortment of other stringed instruments, and can stand in front of an audience and perform. For me, music is a gift. It heals my soul and gives my grief, my joy, my gratitude, and my voice, a positive outlet.

The grief journey is long and painful. But on the other side, I now appreciate life and no longer fear death. The colors are brighter, the laughter is real, and the tears are an accepted part of my everyday life. Every day is not a double rainbow, but when one shines upon my horizon, I stop whatever I am doing, enjoy the moment, and count my blessings.