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I had stopped making new memories together, my son began to feel farther and farther away from me. Talking to him, and all of my considering, brought him closer. Or maybe it was my way of saying no to the loss: No, I won’t let him cease to exist.
Eventually I came to realize that the reason I enter- tained all of these stories and philosophies was not because I necessarily believed in them, but because it just felt better than not doing so. It was similar
to what I’ve learned since about practicing mindful self-compassion: we don’t do it to fix or change or heal our suffering, we do it because it hurts. Because life, and death, are painful, because suffering is universal. For me, it wasn’t necessary at all to know whether Benjamin could hear me when I talked to him, or whether our lives have these points of exit;
I didn’t need to embrace any of these ideas as “true” or “right.” I only needed to keep considering, just because it hurt. Solipsism? Maybe, but my reality nonetheless, as I faced the unthinkable.
Grief is a gray and barren land; we struggle to find ways to traverse it. We listen to our guts and vague inner knowings about what we need to do next, and what is not do-able, as we move through this terrain haltingly, face-to-face with the unknown. We become like young children again, little scientists experi- menting with different ways of doing and being, in order to see what happens next, to understand some small part of our world. But at the bottom of it all, we do it because our hearts crack open with unimagi- nable pain, and we try everything we can think of
to stay present to that pain. Even if our efforts don’t make rational sense or fit into any accepted world view, even if they diverge radically from what we once believed. Because it is only by remaining pres- ent to the grief, softening our bellies to let in the sor- row, that we manage to get through it.
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After Benjamin died, I chose to hold onto my memory from the Natick Mall, and the points of exit story. Perhaps this was because I had kept him safe back then, or because I saw the incident as some kind of rehearsal for the coming loss. Or maybe I just needed to treasure the memory of Benjamin’s soft skin as I touched his cheek with mine, the scent of breast milk and baby shampoo, the solid feel of his body in my arms, safe from harm. My right elbow still aches off and on, 30 years later, but I don’t mind, because it connects us, my boy and me. I carry him still.
Cummings is a writer and clinical psychologist who lives with her hus- band in Minneapolis. Her work has appeared in Hippocampus, Moon Magazine, Mutha, mamazine, and the award winning anthology, She’s Got This!. She recently completed a memoir about finding home.
“Parents who have lost a child, especially
the newly bereaved, find ourselves in constant search mode. Frozen in hyper- vigilance, we ask ourselves, Where is he?”
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