I think we all know the rest of that adage. I'm making lemonade at Living Well. When I serve up the final brew, it may not be what anyone expects - least of all me.
Once more it's been far too long since I've been in contact, and yet again, though I'm sure many of you will find this almost unbelievable, there has been another death in the family. On March 24, sometime around 4 AM, I picked up the ringing phone and found myself on the end of that one call no parent ever wants to receive. My husband's 27 year old son was killed in a tragic car accident.We are grateful for the outpouring of sympathy, compassion and shoulders to cry on. Without the care and comfort of family and friends during this time, I can't imagine how my husband and I would have kept our sanity (and have we? I'm not sure). Though it feels like our world has ended, it continues to turn and times goes on.
Family and friends remain kind and caring, but as the circle of aquaintance widens, the compassion lessens. We have no choice but to return to "normal" every day life, though our lives are so far from normal as to seem like we're walking on the moon. We go to work, we buy groceries, we shop for necessities, we attend high school graduations and family picnics. We make it look like nothing has changed, and yet, everything has changed, nothing will ever be the same.
Every day brings reminders - a car that looks just like his, a young man with a goatee and the same casual stride. Grandchildren that fill the house with joy and laughter, like music - but always underscored with the sorrow of knowing that there will be no grandchildren from Chad. Not just a life, but a lifetime lost in one tragic moment. Punishment far too harsh for the crimes of youthful folly.
A few years back a sister coach suffered through another episode of the precise challenge on which she built her coaching specialty. "Enough with the experience, already!" she lamented. I say the same - "Enough with the profound grief. I get it."
Though I did not give birth to Chad, though I didn't hold him when he cried as a baby, though I wasn't there for those early years, though people will point out he is only my step-son, there was a bond between us, a meeting of minds and creative spirit not always understood by those we love and who love us in return. In Chad I found a son, so much like the brother I lost 32 years ago. When I think of them both now, I am reminded of the lyric from Starry Starry Night -"This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you."
My grief is deeper than any I've ever known, but it does not touch the depth of sorrow that my husband is suffering. This alone weaves another thread into the fabric of my shroud. Still, together we keep putting one foot in front of the other, we keep putting on the masks we must wear at work, in the grocery store and on the street. As a coach, I know that this is the best thing to do right now. In time - a long time - the masks won't seem so grotesque, the smiles won't seem so out of sync with the feelings. In time the sorrow will find a place deep within us, rising to the surface less and less frequently. When it erupts, it will be every bit as devasting as it was the night the call came, every bit as heartbreaking as it is the 100 times a day his father and I think of him now, it just won't linger as long.
The Living Well website will stay "up", but at this time I will not be offering coaching for overcoming grief - I simply have to remove myself from that community of sorrow for now - or risk complete overload.
In the meantime, I am considering new possibilities and formulating a coaching practice built on happiness. I'll keep stirring the lemonade, and adding sweetner - we'll see what we get.
