On Loss
I have lost a great many things in my life. Teddy bears for one, a koala to be exact. I desperately wanted my father to turn around and go back to the house I had left it at, but he didn’t. I sat in the car, crying for what seemed like endless miles. I remember thinking, “he could turn around if he wanted to, if he cared about me he would turn around, adults can do anything they want, if he wanted to he could”—on an on my mind went—playing out the injustice of it all. I vowed that day that if my child ever lost anything so special to her, I would turn around, I would make a call, I would not let it go and let her cry. Simply accepting the loss was (and often still is) unacceptable to me.
I know that there are some losses in life that one must accept, but I’ll be the first to admit that I have a hard time with it. If I set a goal for myself, no matter how small, it must be attained. If I have an idea, I have to see it come to fruition. If I make a plan, it must be acted out. I will find a way to see it to the end. I refuse to let it fall into the harsh and calloused hands of Loss. Yet even with this attitude I cannot escape Loss— loss of sleep, loss of time with family because I just have to get ___ project done now, loss of money because I have to get ___ project done now, loss of true clarity because I’m so focused that I lose my vision, loss of a chance to… you name it. It doesn’t matter what I do; sometimes Loss marches in and sits boldly at the table waiting to be fed.
No matter how unacceptable I may view Loss’s behavior to be, I’ll admit there are times when my actions invite her in. I leave the door open and the welcome mat out. I will concede that. However, I never did anything to merit one of Loss’s cruelest deeds. Just as I became a mother myself, Loss stepped in with Death smiling at her side, and snatched the one person who at the time I needed most—my mother. I did the usual process of grieving. I walked the twelve steps, or however many there are in the grieving process. I’ve lost count— I’ve been up and down them so much. I suppose I could say I have dealt with my loss, but that would be a lie. No, she still comes around and stares at me as I dress, as I drink my coffee, and as I kiss my daughter before sending her off to school. I see Loss eyeing my little girl, but I try not to let fear grip me. I just pull my daughter close for one more hug and worship the moment, because that is all it is and Loss will come. I must accept it and not fear.
