Hold On to Yourself
"Hold on. Hold on to yourself for this is gonna hurt like hell" - Sarah Mclachlan
I wish someone had uttered these words to me so many years ago. About life, about love; and mostly, about loss. Loss of friends and family, loss of partners and of the pain and suffering that accompanies this type of grief. I wish someone had prepared me for the pain and suffering, for the grieving that I would have to experience in my life. I wish someone had prepared me for what it would feel like to lose so many people throughout my life; at the very least, that I'd had fair warning that there would be so many.
As I've said in previous posts, I have lost so many people over my nearly 50 years, that I've become somewhat of an 'unofficial grief expert', of sorts. Not just normal, expected losses; including grandparents, aunts and uncles, and elderly family friends. Not that these kinds of losses are any less impactful or require less emotional or psychological hardiness to experiences the stages of. But also, some incredibly heart-wrenching and life-altering losses; beginning when I was only twenty-one, with the loss of my best friend, Lisa.
I was explaining tonight, what Lisa meant to me. That she was the best female friend I'd had. That we were the kind of friends who shared everything; including, raising our babies together and sharing every spare moment we had together. We often joked that we would make a better couple to one another than our partner's, at the time, would. Were it not for both of our heterosexual tendencies, that we would have been a great couple. We were kindreds; we understood each other's hearts, and we got one another's rambling, curious, hilarious and creative minds. I remember, after losing Lisa - who was killed in a car accident in November, 1991 - going to see a grief counsellor. This particular counsellor's advice was that, "absence makes the heart grow fonder", and that I needed to, "find some new friends". Easier said than done when you are painfully aware of the fact that the heart was just as fond of your friend before she died, as it was after.
Lisa wasn't my first loss, but she was the first of the greatest losses in my life. Hers was a loss that changed my life, my idea of what friendship should look like, and gave me my first painful realization of mortality; of my own and of those in my life. There were many after Lisa; friends, family, neighbours and co-workers. So much loss and so many hours, days, weeks, months and years grieving these losses and managing this newly found mortality.
The next greatest loss in my life came thirteen years later, when my brother died. Christian, who I talk about in my earlier blogs, "See You Again", and, "The Drive", died in a cabin fire in 2004. My baby brother, who fled to the Yukon to escape his demons, lived a life similar to that of the character, Chris (aka - Alexander Supertramp), based on Chris McCandless in the book and movie, "Into the Wild". Chris hiked across North America and into the Alaskan wilderness in the 1990's; whereas, Christian found himself in Dawson City, Yukon. He lived in a remote cabin, along the Yukon river and later found himself staying in Dawson City, while taking classes in Whitehorse, with aspirations of becoming a Mountain Guide one day. Christian died October 16th, 2004; the fifteenth year anniversary approaching in four days.
Since Christian, there have been so many more losses in my life; including more close friends and family, in-laws, and both of my parents. Each, bringing with them, their own challenges and emotional stressors. From 2011 to 2017, alone, these losses included; two mother-in-laws, a father-in-law, a grandmother and an aunt by marriage, my close friend who was like a surrogate mother to me, my friend whose sons were raised with mine, and who babysat for me, two comrades, and my mother and father. Each one chipping away little by little at my, already broken heart and tortured soul. Each one, bringing with it, the sense of mortality that always comes with tragic, unexpected and big loss.
With the anniversary of my brother's death quickly approaching, and with the anniversary of Lisa's death, also looming in the background; in the forefront of my mind, I am finding myself taking stock. Taking stock of what I have, what (and who) I've lost and of what I have and haven't done with my time and life. I'm finding myself grateful for most things I am lucky enough to have; my children, the (albeit complicated and possibly even another impending loss) man who has my heart, X, and my friends and family, alike.
I'm lucky to have beautiful friends, family and fur babies in my life, who not only accept and love me, and allow room for me in their lives, but who also enhance my life and bring life to me and mine. I find myself grateful for what I have and what I've accomplished; especially considering where I came from and all that I went through getting there. And, as strange and dark as it may sound, grateful for all that I've lost because of what it has taught me. And, I find myself holding on.
As I said, I wish someone had forewarned me; mostly, that life would, "hurt like hell", and that I needed to "hold on"; to myself, to life and to what I still had to live for and to be grateful for, even after each loss. Now, I find myself wishing for my kids, my love, my family and friends; that they are able to, "hold on" through the pain and weight of their lives, and through the losses that they experience, as well. That they can make it through these hardships to where they can finally be appreciative of, and grateful for what they have, because of what they have held on through, and what they have overcome. That they can make it through these challenges and find something; some light at the end of each of their proverbial tunnels to guide them to even the tiniest shred of hope that is often all we have to keep us going. This is my wish for everyone. That everyone experiencing such loss; everyone grieving, everyone trying to overcome and to get through their dark days, that they can, "hold on" through the darkness long enough to get to the light at the end of their tunnel. That light, of the gratefulness for what they have remaining even after life hit them hard and made them, "hurt like hell".