Two years ago I was holding my lifeless baby and feeling pretty lifeless myself. This past week I attended Calvin's Festival of Faith and Writing. At the session with Ed Dobson and Sara Miles, Miles spoke about the difference between healing and curing. She spoke of a woman, dying from breast cancer, who was estranged from her son. Over the course of her illness, which would eventually take her life, she and her son managed to forgive, repair and restore. Their relationship with completely, fully healed, while she was completely, fully NOT cured.
This resonated with me in such a way that I can hardly speak about it--and writing about it is not much easier. I feel as if I am healing from the loss of Hazel, but I am not cured. I will never be cured of the loss. Her death, the desire to have had the privilege of raising her, will always, ALWAYS, be part of me. And at this point, I wouldn't have it any other way. The first few weeks after her death, the idea that I would carry my grief forever was almost more than I could bear. But I did bear it, thanks to friends, family and a God who understands my grief while still forcing me to walk through it.
But cured or healed, whichever word you choose hardly matters, because I am not yet healed. I catch myself sinking deeper into an unreal life--hiding behind my computer and my books. I hardly do any crafts, baking, fun householdy-type-stuff anymore--shoot, I hardly read anymore. I just waste time, watching the clock and waiting for the time to pass. Not everyday is like this, of course. If I didn't have the homeschool co-op and other responsibilities at church (and friends who lovingly expect me to fulfill my obligations) I think I would already be in a deep state of denial and depression, but still, I am getting a little scared that if I don't give myself a good kick in the ass, I'll be lost and my kids will be grown and I'll be saying, "Wait! I wanted to..."