I saw this on facebook today and thought I would share it here. Forgive me if it has already been posted elsewhere. It is supposedly an elderly man's answer to a young man struggling with the death of a friend. Tomorrow will be seven weeks since I lost the love of my life, Leo. As I read this today, I thought that it perfectly described how my grief has been progressing. For those of you who still feel like you're drowning, I hope this helps a little bit:

I'm old. What that means is that I've survived (so far) and a lot of people I've known and loved did not.

I've lost friends, best friends, acquaintances, co-workers, grandparents, mom, relatives, teachers, mentors, students, neighbors, and a host of other folks. I have no children, and I can't imagine the pain it must be to lose a child. But here's my two cents...

I wish I could say you get used to people dying. But I never did. I don't want to. It tears a hole through me whenever somebody I love dies, no matter the circumstances. But I don't want it to "not matter". I don't want it to be something that just passes. My scars are a testament to the love and the relationship that I had for and with that person. And if the scar is deep, so was the love. So be it.

Scars are a testament to life. Scars are a testament that I can love deeply and live deeply and be cut, or even gouged, and that I can heal and continue to live and continue to love. And the scar tissue is stronger than the original flesh ever was. Scars are a testament to life. Scars are only ugly to people who can't see.

As for grief, you'll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you're drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it's some physical thing. Maybe it's a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it's a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don't even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you'll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what's going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything...and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it's different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O'Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you'll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don't really want them to. But you learn that you'll survive them. And other waves will come. And you'll survive them too.

If you're lucky, you'll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks.
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Glad to see that you have posted. I have been thinking of you and wondering how things are going.
I had never seen that passage before and although I cry as I type there is truly an uplifting message here.

We are still working on having the wound change into a scar but it happens with time.
Sending you positive, healing thoughts today.
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Rosie1, that is so beautifully-written. I don't know who wrote it but it describes a lot.

That is exactly what I thought, just after my girl left this world. Great waves would come and wash over me and drag me down into their depths. At that point I didn't even care what they did to me. I had no instinct of self preservation left. Literally. But I did observe the waves, and got dragged under nevertheless, where it was hard to 'breathe'.
I learned that they would come and there was nothing I could do about it, and that was my scar/wound for the sake of love, and that if it killed me all was well anyway.
I let the waves take me right under the 'water', didn't struggle, didn't bother to fight them, just went down, and let go to it all. Letting go of how I felt released me and I found I bobbed up to the surface again, and could catch a breath....until the next wave.
I did abandon myself entirely to the force of those waves, and relied on providence.
Hold the love like a little light. It is all you have, or will ever have, to find your way home.

Misty's Blog..a Dogfight with Cancer

Misty's life after death:
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Wow, thank you...really...thank you. 
This has described it in ways I couldn't...
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Diane, I've been doing okay. Still coming on here once in a while, but I find it a little bittersweet. On one hand, it's nice knowing there are so many other people out there who understand. However, it also brings back the crushing sadness when I read too much about all the beloved pets that people are missing so much. I've had good and bad days, as is to be expected. I've seen an improvement in the last two weeks or so. The passage I posted summed things up really well, I think. The waves are definitely still coming, but they are slowly getting further apart and aren't quite as high as they were. I hope you are continuing to make progress as well. I read your responses on here to other people and your words are always so thoughtful and comforting.
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Thank you for posting this, I hope it holds true for me as we just lost our Tuffy on 8/24/15 suddenly and without warning. It's all so surreal, like a horrible dream I just need to wake up from and see him here. It still just doesn't seem possible, and the pain is insurmountable, with thoughts of him constantly on my mind.

They say time heals all wounds, but I believe this one is way too deep and will never fully heal.
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Hello Rosie1,
   A beautiful perspective on loss and grief. I also learned to give into the waves after a while. I figured they are going to come anyway. Its almost like learning to ride out the tide of grief without drowning. The waves do become less crashing and devastating with time, yet just as the loss is always there, so will be the ocean and the waves. We just learn how to handle them better and every once in a while, we find a peaceful shore to spend some time on and remember the good, the true, the beauty, the love that our beloveds brought to us..............I hope you find a peaceful shore................Sincerely, Andrea.
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This really helped me today. Thank you.
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Thank you Rosie for that post, wow, its so apt for all of us.
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