Some thoughts on rebuilt engines

I read this story in the Compassionate Friends newsletter and felt the need to keep it on my blog (with acknowledgement of the author, of course - so I hope she doesn't mind). It is a reminder of where I have been since the loss of my grandson and hope for where I wish I could be. I am certainly not there yet, and maybe someday I will be, but for now this brings comfort on bad days and brings me hope in the new year.

Those of us who receive the Compassionate Friends newsletter have experienced something in common — the shattering of our human machinery upon impact with a son or daughter’s death. Whatever helped us keep moving before, nothing works for us now. Our lives ground to a halt.

In the stillness of grief’s long night, I felt despair over trying to repair something that would always lack a vital part. How could I ever rebuild the machinery of my life without that precious part? Any repair work would require my permission and participation. Looking at the tangled, damaged parts of myself, I questioned how to salvage any thing workable from the wreckage.

Eventually, blessedly, the desire to move again, to get back into life’s traffic, got me doing something. At first it was tinkering, experimenting with the broken parts, imagining them whole again. Then I tried to learn by watching others who were rebuilding. It helped to read repair manuals, painfully written by people like me. The process was tedious and exhausting; there were setbacks, hidden costs, and false starts.

One surprising day my engine actually turned over — I moved a little. Before long, the motor sounded stronger. It almost seemed to hum, as I remembered it could. With persistence, I worked up to a decent speed, regained my sense of direction, and even began appreciating some sights along the way. I discovered that a rebuilt engine could carry me, despite the missing part. Occasionally it sputters, misfires, or floods, being sensitive to road hazards other drivers don’t see. Some hills always seem too steep; certain roads have too many memories. Sometimes the fog is too thick to drive through. When necessary, I slow down, make adjustments, or pull off the road temporarily.

I wanted to write about my experience out of gratitude. Each of us has our own long night of grief and our own reawakening from it. The mystery of healing defies simple explanation. Do invisible hands help us in the healing process? I don’t have an answer, just astonishment at the process which moved me from the tangled wreckage of myself to a sturdy rebuilt that appears whole, even though it isn’t.

In closing, I lovingly acknowledge my daughter, Beth, who believed deeply in the possibility of rebuilding her own life. Joan Page — TCF, Miami