On February 15, 2024, I had the pleasure and opportunity to be one of seven storytellers to tell a true story for the I Am Project produced by the Nest Theatre in Columbus, OH. Here is my story. Note: this story is about grief and loss.
There are two time periods in my life, before the accident and after the accident. I do not know if I fully remember before the accident. I was often busy, doing all different types of work, projects, papers, and school. And in all honesty, I have a terrible memory. But I do know, I know in my heart that I always made time for the ones I loved.
Before the accident and after the accident. That’s how my husband and I talk about it. But what it really means is, with Isaiah and without Isaiah.
See, last year, I told a story about not being enough to learn that I am enough to want to live in this world without Isaiah. Today, I know that I have evolved, as I do not question if I want to live, I am practicing how to live again.
I actually don’t like: “With Isaiah and without Isaiah.” As words are strong, they carry meaning, and they absolutely can hurt. But the meaning of words can evolve. Slowly over time, and other times as quick as the words come out your mouth or even seeps into your thoughts. As some words hit me a little differently than they ever have before.
STRONG, the word strong has changed for me. I don’t feel strong. Living my life with an entire piece of me missing. Some days I’m just trying to make it to the next knowing that my heart has been shattered. Carrying trauma and the feeling of being damaged to never be whole again. Is this strength?
LOSS. That’s a tricky word for me to grasp. We lost our son. When one is made aware that someone has lost something, there is a potential that it can be found, it simply implies that one doesn’t know where it is. A temporary loss.
We lost our son. The “loss” of someone you love, you know they are not just misplaced, and you await to accept the fact that you won’t see them in this life again. A permanent Loss.
But is that always true? Can my meaning of loss change? Is there a glimmer of hope that I can at least communicate with him? Maybe he’s just gone from this dimension but I can learn to connect with him in a different way. Can I change how I expect to communicate with my son?
The meaning of life, of my life and the words I use continue to evolve. It seems that nothing is stagnant. But I question if it can be. Can I hold onto anything that I would like? Would I never let go? No, there is no need for me to get stuck pondering this, for it is not so.
Orphan, widow, widower. If I am none of these, who am I? Does our society not acknowledge through our language-our words-who I am? Is it something taboo or so heartbreaking that we don’t know how to handle it, how to talk about it, so we avoid it. I had to find the name. Vilomah–vilomah is Sanskrit for…against the natural order…a parent who has lost a child.
The evolution of being, of becoming, watching others become, and others learning to accept that my becoming includes watching parts of life happening out of order.
We all evolve. Whether we like it or not. However, we also have a choice. I can hold onto my trauma and pain like a security blanket, to never accept the circumstances, to try to elicit control over an accident in which I had known. I become someone unrecognizable even to myself, distant from friends and family, and yearning to take my last breath. Or I can choose to work to release the trauma, accept the grief, ride the waves that threaten to take all of the hard work away in a blink of an eye, but instead stay afloat to see the sun on the horizon when the water calms.
See, my evolution is not done. I still have a story to tell. Yes, I can feel damaged and believe I will never be whole again. But those days are fewer and farther between than they once were before. Somedays, I catch the sun beaming through the clouds in the sky, I notice glimpses of beauty within nature and I stare in awe. The electricity flickers and I begin talking to Isaiah. A white butterfly circles and I laugh thinking he’s trying to get my attention.
Yes, before the accident, I was busy and I kept myself moving, I had no regrets, for I knew that I spent time with the people that I love. After the accident, I don’t keep myself as busy. Life has slowed down. I have no regrets. I take each day as it comes. Breathing and living again.
I am reminded, by my therapist, of a Japanese tradition called Kintsugi — which means “join with gold.” Instead of throwing objects out which have been broken, they are repaired with a gold lacquer, creating a more beautiful object than once before. I am not an object but I am evolving to become more beautiful.
I can see the beauty in the world. I can cherish the little things that are often overlooked in our everyday life. I can love, I can be loved. Yes, I still have open wounds, but I also have scars, and my scars are gold. For I am evolving.
Authentically Liat 