Last year as my mare recovered from a severe episode of founder, I leased a nice, (mostly) well-behaved gelding named Winslow. Over the summer, Winslow developed a nasty little sore near one of his front feet. We never figured out how he got it – probably just being a dunce in the pasture.
We (myself and his owner) would treat the sore. It would scab over and appear to heal, and then somehow he would always come in, having irritated it. It never appeared to bother him or interfere with his daily activities (admittedly, his daily activities weren’t all that demanding); it just wouldn’t go away completely.
Winslow moved on to another local barn and is enjoying being semi-retired and teaching kids and adults how to ride. I hear that the sore is still there.
A little over a year and a half since my accident — and over two years since losing my dad — I have found that this blog has changed and evolved with trajectory of my recovery. My recovery no longer refers solely to my physical injury; it also refers to my emotional recovery from two very different, tramautic experiences.
I have discovered that emotionally, dealing with a significant loss is much like Winslow’s sore. The acute phase of grief needs to be treated and acknowledged for what it is: a trauma. It may not be a physical trauma, but emotionally, the impact is every bit as devastating. And, much like a sore that scabs over but never seems to fully heal, grief has a lasting impact.
A few weeks ago, Paul and I finally set out to clean out the radio station building that my dad owned and get it ready to sell. Continuing to deal with the repercussions of a sudden death is a weight on the people left behind. The weight is not only dealing with the grief of the loss but also with the fact that we can’t fully move on with other aspects of our lives until the logistics of death are dealt with in full. In our case, it just happens to be a much more complex situation.
I go about my daily life but always carry around a sore, just scabbed over. I cut it open much less frequently than I used to. However, it doesn’t take much to irritate it.
We had saved my dad’s office for last. I knew that under his desk were a couple of pairs of his walking shoes, left just as they were before his stroke. There were also a few items I had stored under the desk to deal with at a later date. However, when that date came, it was like getting hit with another blow.
For me, cleaning out my dad’s desk was like cutting an artery open.
Regardless, I knew that these things needed to be done. In the end, seeing the building completely emptied, I felt a curious blend of sadness and optimism. Since his death, I have longed to just be sad. I can handle the grief itself but adding insult to injury by having to deal with all the things he left behind is just too much at times.
I find it interesting how much this blog has changed over the past year and a half, and I often think my experience is not unique. I just happen to have laid it out in writing from the beginning. I don’t often write specifically about my injury anymore because it has become a part of what I have been through and not necessarily who I am. I visualize what happened to me as being completely separate from losing my dad, who was and is a part of me.
Of course, I wish that my own injury had never happened. But in a way, I am richer for it. Because I have recovered so well, I can use my experience and insight to help further research and assist other people going through similar situations. The experience also took me down a different emotional path.
Since time sort of paused at first after my injury, and I became immediately focused on recovering, I didn’t have as much time to sit and wallow in emotional despair (do I sound dramatic? Good, I mean it!). I suddenly had to become very focused on something besides the loss.
When I finally got back to a place in my physical recovery where I could re-visit my grief about my dad, I was struck by how inspired I felt by my dad and how grateful I was to have had him in my life. He had a mental fortitude that I could only hope to emulate.
Often in the past I would encounter other people who had lost significant others (whether it be a parent or other loved one) and who seemed to be carrying on like normal. I was mystified about how I could accomplish this. Of course, now I understand that coming out on the other side of loss causes you to re-define what normal is. There is no mystery involved, no secret to discover about how to carry on.
You just do.