I talked with a widow from Ohio last night. It turns out we are second cousins and have never met. Our stories of loss are hauntingly similar, except that her husband died only three months ago. I could hear the anguish in her voice as she asked, "How do you do it? How do you survive this?" She confessed to me, "I hate it. I hate it. I hate it."
I was upset that I didn't have answers for her. It's not fair. Severe loss should have at least an answer or two. Why is it that on top of losing our heart's love, we are granted no explanation. But, then again would a reason really help anything?
One of my kindest friends sent me a quote today. She is reading a crime novel about suffering, heartache and running. An interesting mix as she knows I'm training for a 5K in August. Describing the aftermath of a
man being taken hostage, having nightmares, not being able to eat or
sleep or function, the author writes: "The aftermath of his captivity still had legs to run on. Trauma runs the marathon,
not the fifty-yard dash."
This is what I wasn't sure how to describe to my new-found cousin, that five years out I still battle with depression, I always want my kids to have their father back and my heart still hurts. What I could say in confidence is that the raw pain subsides, there is without a doubt good to be found in life and I wake up each day with only one goal in mind–fighting for the good.
