An Autopsy of Loss

Digging our own graves when resurrection seems impossible

It has not been the norm in my life to experience both profound loss and profound gain in the same period of time around the same point of connection. There has always been beauty and goodness, pain and grief, and though these all intermingle occasionally, it’s been rare for me to see them both mashed up against one another, in fact, one precipitated by the other.

This past weekend I witnessed this.

I have wondered if I can write about this gain without writing about this loss—which is not for public consumption—and I think it’s possible. I’m going to try today. Mostly because I am able to see how this devastating loss fits into a bigger and more whole picture of something I lost years ago and it is one I can write about.

But first you should know that I am still grieving hard. I am going to be grieving for a long time. This experience gutted me in a way that I have only felt a few other times in my life. I’ve slept fitfully and less than four hours a night for the past eight nights. My stomach is twisted and my throat is lumpy. My heart hurts and my body feels numb.

Someone who is walking through this with me offered comfort on Sunday, saying there is still a pulse here, even if it’s weak. I rejoined, though, that I’m still deep in a pit, digging the grave. I’m able to see that sometimes what feels true isn’t true, but that doesn’t mean that my feelings don’t matter and don’t need attention that is true. In other words, if I pretend there is a pulse and mask the stink of death, I’m not dealing in truth and I’ll pay for it later.

Which is where this whole thing started.

This is all very vague and I’m not trying to be vague. That’s bad writing. Good writing is specific. Now the specifics.