It’s been thirty years since a barrage of phone calls woke me with an urgency. As I fumbled my way down the old staircase, I heard the answering machine capture the lingering words of the most recent caller: “It’s Ryan….”
A blur of nonsensical words assaulted my now waking brain, and I struggled to make sense. It’s a dreamstate in early morning light, and I shook my head to break apart the grogginess.
On autopilot, I dialed ‘9-1-1’ and a woman’s voice immediately answered. It seemed she’d never been on the receiving end of a call that asked her if indeed the message was “real”
“Is it true?” I asked.
“An officer will call you back. Stay near the phone. Don’t go anywhere. It may take some time….”
It didn’t.
An officer called me within seconds. “Yes. I’m sorry. It IS your son. I’m sorry. Please don’t come here—it’s mayhem. All of his friends are screaming and crying. Where would you like us to take the body? Is he a donor?”
He just became one.
Life after death…
No one has the monopoly on grief. My pain is not greater than yours, nor is yours greater than mine. It doesn’t feel that way though, especially when it’s fresh. I still remember the oddity of life going on around me as if nothing had happened. People went about their business without a clue that I was barely hanging on. Only a mechanical version of me took care of the necessary tasks. The rest of me was gone.
We each feel and heal in our own way and in our own time. Yet it’s clear to me that although the grief of losing a loved one is profound, it is also organic—changing form over time. It’s a challenge to go on living—to find life after the death of a loved-one. It took a long time until I could safely tuck the pain away into a special file that is now opened less frequently. And then only briefly.
Thirty years later, and I still struggle to get out of bed this day. I indulge, sinking deeper into the cocoon of my luxury bedding. My selfishness is front and center. Today I will do nothing. I have no spare energy to give to others. I OWN my selfishness. Thirty years, and still I mourn….
Who would he be, had he grown into a man?
What would he look like?
What would his life look like when all I can see is his death?
A lot has come of his death, of course.
Writing Blessings in the Mire was the catalyst to my own healing. Allowing the words to flow onto the pages was deeply cathartic, and ultimately allowed me to move on.
If you’ve experienced loss, if you have a curiosity about where energy goes when it leaves the body, if you have an affinity for angels, spirit guides, and for peeking into the deeply personal stories of others, you may enjoy reading Blessings in the Mire: A True Story of Miracles & Recollections. It’s profoundly personal, and some readers say it has “healing properties,” but I’ll make no claims and leave that determination up to you.
Blessings in the Mire: A True Story of Miracles & Recollections is available where books are sold. Clicking the hyperlinked title will take you to Amazon.
Discover more from Jan Deelstra, Int'l Best-Selling Author & Women's Empowerment Coach
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