I went to a special lunch event today with my job and ended up sitting next to a woman I greatly admire. I made a point to ask questions and really listen to what she had to say because I want to learn from her. She has walked a path of great suffering since she lost her husband to sudden illness last year. She looks frail in every conceivable way but she is one of the strongest people I know.
At one point during our conversation she said, “Losing my husband is the hardest thing I’ve ever been through. It’s like an amputation of the heart. My life will never be the same. But I make a decision every day to keep living, even when I don’t want to. I have so many blessings and I force myself to remember them.” She recounted losing her parents and even a 17 month old grand-daughter. Never once during the conversation did she complain. I could tell she has a lot of experience holding back tears because she did not cry and her voice never wavered. Her right hand trembled slightly as she delicately placed her fork into her salad. Several bites in she said, “I lost my appetite when John(not his real name) died. But I know I must eat, so I do. I don’t manage change well, but change is a part of life.”
I have never experienced that kind of pain and was struck by her resolve. While the world zips by around her, she lives in a cocoon of grief. After 47 years of marriage, she is alone. And I could think was, “It’s not fair.”
All of us manage pain in some capacity, some better than others, and in varying degrees. From the cold finality of death, to the loss of a job, pain does not discriminate. It invades our lives when we least expect it and crushes us with tentacles stronger than steel.
I spent most of my childhood in abject pain. Picked on by children at school, and misunderstood by family, I began acting out. I so craved approval from my peers that I earned a reputation as a class clown. I would do anything for a laugh, including flopping on the ground and flailing around as if I was having a seizure. One of my favorite cries for attention was belching with the boys. I just wanted someone to tell me I belonged, that I was “normal” and I wasn’t a social outcast. Of course I picked all of the wrong activities for a young girl. I had a beige jacket that zipped all the way to the top of the hood and took turns bobbing around blindly, bumping into my classmates as if I was some kind of deranged lunatic recently escaped from the asylum. They would laugh and scream and shun me further but I craved their attention. I didn’t understand why their laughter was not acceptance and I wholeheartedly refused to listen to my mother when she said, “Stop acting so weird and people will like you.” I didn’t know how to stop acting weird. Quite obviously I have never figured it out.
Clearly I have very simple problems. I don’t have cancer. My children are all relatively healthy. I am gainfully employed. I can’t even imagine what it would feel like to not know where I was going to sleep tonight. Or even worse if I did and it did not involve a roof. I am always struck by the homeless who linger outside the baseball games down town. Their faces sag under the weight of addiction and rejection. I walk by arrogantly and judge them even as I work to forget their faces.
Pain is a part of this world whether we like it or not. We have two choices to deal with it. Wallow and sulk or keep moving. Grief is a rational response. So is anger. And still, we must keep moving because if we stop, our growth is stunted. If we choose to stay in that place of pain, we diminish and are forever defined by that moment of sorrow. I admire and enjoy people who have suffered and learned from the experience, but I loathe those who froze in place. Not because they are less human, but because they are so unpleasant to be around. My own little slice of suffering gives me perspective and hope. Perspective, that pain does not last forever. Hope, that happiness will come again.
While my journey is very different than that of my friend, we have one thing in common: conscious movement. We recognize that staying in place is counterproductive. It is difficult for her to move when her heart is so heavy, but she knows there is still beauty in the world to be experienced. So I’m going to quote my favorite Pixar character here, and if you haven’t seen Finding Nemo, I still think you’ll understand. “Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming. Just keep swimming, swimming, swimming.”
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