What we carry

Living with grief

My sister Kate died three years ago today. In some ways, all the time since that day has been a blur. Yes, life has changed. My wife and I have had to face new challenges as our kids have continued to learn and grow and mature. The work of WPI continues. But the grief is still so raw.

A week after Katie died, we found out my wife was pregnant. A glimmer of light in a sea of loss. A couple of months later, the miscarriage. Mid-May is hard: Mother's day was last week, then today's anniversary, tomorrow would have been dad's 76th birthday.

Every day is a day of mourning, but most days I try to push it down. Anniversaries are hardest, but the truth is that I always feel the weight of all this loss in some way.

Last year I had my own brush with death — I went into anaphylactic shock one Saturday night. We never found the cause. When I lay vulnerable as the team of medical personnel worked to save me in the noisy and hectic ER — as I heard the voice off to my right shouting, “he’s fading, he’s fading,” over and over again — I began to wonder if my life was really going to end right there, in that room.

I could tell I was going in and out of consciousness, and when I was conscious, I realized that these might be my closing thoughts. Rather than panic, I was surprised that interiorly, I was quiet and calm. Just me with my thoughts and a chance to talk to God. There were no heavenly messages or visions, and God’s voice remained silent, a it had been for some years.

Devout Catholic I am, I made an act of contrition and asked God to forgive my sins. In my state, that was all I could do. I talked to God in the silence and asked him to watch over and protect my wife and kids, I spoke to him in silence about the work I hoped to accomplish in the future, but found myself at peace even if my work here was done.

I thought about Dad, Mom, and Kate, I wondered if I would see them soon. I also thought about Patrick and Mary, who would be the only two left if my time was up.

Obviously I survived but my thoughts routinely turn to the fragility of life. I’ve found it difficult to think ahead more than a few months, let alone make plans for the long term.

I don't know why I'm sharing all this publicly, but I imagine that many of you feel broken, bottled up, and in need of healing. Know you are not alone. My Catholic faith is built on the hope that someday the lost and broken pieces of ourselves will be healed.