But there is no escaping the vice that holds me now.
Not this time. There was no happy ending. There was an unhappy beginning with
no turning back. No “Get Out Of Jail Free” cards have been dealt to me or my
family. Sometimes you win it all. Sometimes you go bankrupt. It all depends on a
roll of the dice.
My counselor explained things to me this way. “Sadness
is going to be a companion to you.” I already knew that, but it was validating
to hear it from a professional who specializes in grief. The first time I wrote
about losing Rob, the opening line read, “This is where I live now. In sadness.”
I guess it’s strange to think of sadness being a
companion. Who wants a buddy like that? It flies in the face of our most
cherished and unalienable right—the pursuit of life, liberty, and happiness. I
think it’s fair to say that happiness and sadness seem mutually exclusive. Combining
the two sounds like we’re either not good at picking a partner or somebody
doesn’t know their rights.
I’ve discovered two things in the aftermath of
injury: I don’t have rights and I don’t
have control. Instead, I am learning to live with loss. It’s not exactly the
American Dream.
This is what is so difficult to explain. I didn’t
understand it myself until I landed here. No one wants to live in this space or
be companioned by sadness. We try to avoid it the way you’d step around a mud
puddle or a pile of poo. We don’t want it on us. Or near us. A fragrance like
that repels, it doesn’t invite. Being happy is the goal. Feeling joy is the expectation.
Best to look on the bright side, be grateful, thankful, feel blessed, and decorate
our walls with reminders to keep up the good work. No one buys plaques that
say, “Life is Hard,” even though it often is. We must keep our heads up. Our
spirits high. No negativity allowed. Positive energy is the god of the age.
But there was this man. He wasn’t famous for his good
looks. His honesty offended the religious. He saw through the masks worn by
everyone. And though love does conquer all, it was the way he identified with
the broken of the world that stood out most. He was known as a man of sorrows.
Well acquainted with grief. I have to assume grief and sorrow and suffering
were his companions, too. One of the last things he told his devoted friends
was, “In this world you will have trouble.” Not exactly a motivational speech, I’d
say, even though he followed up with, “But be of good cheer, for I have
overcome the world.”
You don’t overcome without facing something that
requires it. And whatever it is won’t be easy.
So, I was thinking about trees. Rob and I always planted
trees at every home we ever made. My family and I planted one in his honor
right outside the window of my new place. It’s young and healthy and will someday
be a magnificent oak. But when it is, it will bear scars. Trees can’t dodge
trouble because they’re rooted in place. They lose branches in storms. Are
targeted by insects and birds. Star-crossed lovers carve their initials into
them. The list of damage is endless. I read that by the time a healthy forest
tree reaches maturity it could easily have had a thousand wounds, each with the
potential to leave the inside of the tree exposed to disease and the risk of
death. If they’re going to survive, they have to overcome their injuries. But
the way it’s done is surprising.
The trick is in sealing, not healing.
We’re tempted when we see a cut on a tree from, say, a
careless lawnmower incident, to slather on tar and conceal the wound. Hide the
damage and hope that covering it up will allow it to heal from the inside out.
That’s what we do when we’re careless while chopping onions. Band-Aids to the
rescue until all is good as new. Not so with mighty oaks.
New wood grows around the wound. It forms a protective
barrier that prevents the infection or decay from spreading. This kind of sealing
compartmentalizes the injury with the gradual growth of new, healthy tissue. The
damage is isolated, not covered up, and the tree grows beyond it. But the
original wound is always there. The resulting protective tissue is called “callus.”
Wounds remain incased and trees simply grow around them.*
Seems even trees can’t escape the vice.
As I said, I’d give almost anything for permanent relief.
Covering up the injury doesn’t help even though doing so might make the view
less uncomfortable for everyone. Or, if I was merely taken captive by a
temporary inconvenience, relief would be swift once the pressure was off. There’s
no escaping this one, and no rushing the progress either. “This is going to
take a long time,” my counselor told me early on. “There are no shortcuts. The
only way through it is through it.” A callous will form, but the wound will
always remain. A reminder of loss and life, courage and endurance.
There’s no healing for trees. There’s no healing for
me either. For the rest of my life, I will live without Rob. You can’t heal
that fact. Instead, over time, I will learn to navigate a world without him the
way a tree grows new tissue around an injury—not ignoring it, but allowing its truth
while, at the same time, continuing to live. And maybe, in time, the
imperfection of a once unmarred life will exhibit its own kind of beauty.
I guess I’d better teach Sadness how to play some cards.
It looks like we’re going to be together for a while.
*Woods Whys: How Do Trees Heal Wounds on Trunks… | Winter 2015 | Articles | W (northernwoodlands.org)
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