Bob Cratchit was heartbroken. He had lost his buddy, his companion, his son. In his grief and desperation we hear him cry, "My child. My little, little child." Yes, Bob Cratchit, losing a child is devastating. What words that can be uttered come from the depths of a heart that can barely keep on beating. Experiencing any form of loss is difficult, but what makes the loss of a child exceptionally so? Is it the regret of words spoken that cannot be retracted or words that now can be spoken but never heard? Is it the thought of potential yet unfulfilled? Is it the ultimate in a parent not being able to protect a child from harm? I don't know the answers. I've asked the questions. I've cried the tears of remorse, regret, and anguish. Sometimes comfort comes - for a moment. The tears retreat. The protecting walls are rebuilt. The daily responsibilities resume, but the grief remains. Right there, under the surface of my heart, the sadness lingers. The sadness lingers--the tears poised for that moment when a whisper, a word, a wisp of what used to be slaps me in the face, stinging my eyes, and causes my memories to stream down my face in hot tears. Some days I search for those pain-inducing memories. I want to feel the pain of the loss because feeling the pain is better than the thought of forgetting. When people tell me (and I appreciate that they are trying to help) that time will ease the pain, I think to myself, "Why would I want that? Why would I want the pain to leave me?" Feeling that pain is what keeps me knowing that what I've gone through is meaningful, purposeful somehow. I'm afraid to not feel the pain. I'm afraid I'll forget. So, like a child who has lost a tooth, whose tongue goes back searching the hole for what he has lost, I will go back. I will go back and search out the pain. For now.
