Someone on reddit wrote the following:
“My friend just died. I don’t know what to do.”
A lot
of people responded. Then there’s one old guy’s incredible comment that stood
out from the rest that might just change the way we approach life and death.
“Alright, here goes. I’m old. What that means is that I’ve
survived (so far) and a lot of people I’ve known and loved did not. I’ve lost
friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives,
teachers, mentors, students, neighbours, and a host of other folks. I have no
children, and I can’t imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here’s
my two cents.
“I wish I could say you used to people dying. I never did.
I don’t want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no
matter the circumstances. But I don’t want it to “not matter.” I don’t want it
to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the
relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so
was the love. So be it. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament
that I can love deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and
continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the
original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to
people who can’t see.
“As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship
is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything
floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship
that was, and is no more. All you can do is float. You find some piece of the
wreckage and hang on for a while. May be it’s some physical thing. May be it’s
a happy memory or a photograph. May be it’s a person who is also floating. For
a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.
“In the beginning, the waves are100 feet tall and crash
over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time
to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, may
be weeks, may be months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but
they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe
you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know
what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street
intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and
the wave comes crushing. But in between waves, there is life.
“Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody,
you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they
still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a
birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the
most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that
somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering,
still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.
“Take it from an old guy. He waves never stop coming, and
somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them.
And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll
have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.”
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