Club Membership
By Wendy Ennis (Guest Blog)
It’s a fight to think of anything else, and my mind screams. It hurts.
Casseroles are brought, but I have a stomach so tied up in knots.
It hurts.
Trying to act normal, but knowing people are watching anyway.
I can’t stand to see someone indifferent to their little boy or girl. Don’t they realize it could be
taken away instantly. I want to shake them. Wake them up. Instead, I walk away. They’re not
members of the club. And I never want them to be.
I hear the same song on the radio everywhere I go. Why does it always make me cry. And why
here in front of all the people in the pasta aisle. I’m learning to give up wiping my tears away, so
they won’t get uncomfortable. Club membership always allows tears, and walking off because I
don’t want to have to explain everything again.
But I do want to talk about it again, again, again. again. I want to change the ending every
time and my mind tries to. My brimming eyes betray my new narrative. So, every time, the
ending is still the same. My child is gone, is dead.
I am hurting so badly.
Friends, friendships begin to shift. I realize some friends aren’t there for me. This is angering.
Why were we even friends to begin with? I soon realize the departing
friends are takers and not givers. They leave because I have nothing to give.
Even my sleep is threatened.
So is my overall health. My hair starts to fall out when I brush it. My mouth chemistry
changes as grief takes control of my immune system. My heart pain is so real, and I sometimes
just want to check out and the pain would go away.
This scares me, and a real friend suggests I talk to my doctor.
The doctor says what I am feeling is normal.
No it’s not.
Try this prescription. It should help. I just go numb. All of us in the club are trying to cope.
Counseling, Journaling, counseling some more, tubs of ice cream, bringing home useless
things, yet unable to part with anything even remotely attached to our child. As if to get rid of
his things would erase his memory.
Some family members avoid me. One even told me it’s not ok to talk about a person after
they have died. I’m speechless, cry silent raging tears. Anger rages because that’s not true yet
no amount of argument will change a mind so made up. I choose to pray God will spare him the
pain of losing a child. Membership dues are non-refundable. I would mention his child’s name.
In this club, the names and stories are said and retold and somehow briefly, pain is
temporarily eased. Our club understands, just because a person is gone, doesn’t mean he didn’t
exist.
Escape.
We want to go somewhere else, another time, another place.
We remind each other in the club, membership isn’t asked for and there isn’t a way
out. The only way to get through it, is to go through it. But it hurts.
Heaven can be so far away yet God so near as when His son died. I try to figure out
the courage to believe and what hope really looks like when what I thought hope was, has been
stripped away- leaving what I think is hopelessness. I fight hopelessness and beg God to use my
pain redemptively. Like I know I can’t possibly be the only one going through this though I feel
like it…
But it’s a club, not a raft alone in the Atlantic. It’s a special connection that turns complete
strangers into immediate confidants, parents, grandparents, are safe to honestly cry with
someone else who understands. In this group, we all understand.
And our compassion for the heartaches of others has shifted to a level playing field. Even our
enemy can no longer threaten us. We have passed the point of anything being worse than what
we have already experienced with the news death has destroyed our child.
With one hand I grip the hand of the member in front of me, thinking if I let go, I will drown.
With my other hand, I grip the hand of the newest member behind me. I don’t let go of that
hand either. Together we are carried in the hand of God. Someday, we will not hurt anymore.
But for now, we hold on to each other.
You must be logged in to post a comment.