Stained

Two Saturdays ago, my mom hosted a bridal shower for one of my best friends.  The shower was held at the house where I grew up.  There were fifty women invited.  The last time that we had that many people at my parent's house was in October, after the memorial service for my brother.  That day, hundreds of people came to our home.  It was the longest day of my life.

As I drove the thirty minute drive from Wilmette to Wauconda on the day of the shower, I was filled with nervousness in anticipation of the day.  A bridal shower is a happy occasion, one to be celebrated, especially when it is of a friend who is as special and dear to me as the bride.  However, I felt anxiety.

There are pictures of my brother everywhere in our home.  Were people afraid to go to the house of the boy who had just died?  Would the bride's friends and family be watching us to see how we handled the day?  Did we look different?  I felt different.

This bridal shower was not about me.  It was about my dear friend Nicole, and her darling fiance Rob (who I adore).  Yet, I felt worried about how I would be perceived at the shower, held at my parent's home...the house of the boy who died.

The shower turned out perfectly.  Nicole was a gracious and lovely bride-to-be, the day was sunny and warm, the decorations beautiful, the food delicious, my mom the perfect hostess.  I was so proud of her, working so hard to do something so special for my friend in the midst of her grief.  I know it was healing for her to plan a happy occasion.

However, I was describing my anxiousness and worry about the shower to a friend.  I asked her why I felt so afraid to have something happy at my mom and dad's home.  I wanted help understanding those seemingly irrational feelings.

She said that I felt "stained" by my brother's death and that I was afraid that others could see those stains.  I thought about the word stained and I started to cry.  She perfectly described how I have felt for the last six months; stained by grief.

I feel stained in that I know that grief is imprinted on my face.  Smiling sometimes feels like a challenge, dark circles are more prominent, new wrinkles surround my eyes.  It is displayed in my home through pictures, memories, reminders of Matthew.  It resonates in my voice, through my tone.  My words are often not light, nor my conversation cheerful.  Losing Matt has infiltrated every ounce of my being, it has stained me.  I am forever changed.

I realize that it is a narcissistic perspective to believe that people are looking at me differently now, thinking about my brother's death, wondering about my family, and associating my life with Matthew's.  The world is moving on and people are thinking of their own lives, problems, worries, joys, celebrations, happiness, sadness, etc.  Maybe my internal pain isn't as externally evident as I think it is.  Maybe others can see it, but it is not as exaggerated as I believe it to be.

It is still so very powerful to me, six months later.  I think of Matt every hour, every minute, constantly.  I miss him all the time.  I look in the mirror, and my face looks tired, old, sad...stained.  I see grief in my reflection.

I only know that these stains are not ugly.  We throw away a favorite t-shirt when it becomes stained beyond repair, but we do not discard people.  I think of my friends who have gone through tragedies and sadness, and they only look more beautiful to me, on the other side.  They look strong, determined, graceful, and wise.  I pray that as I forge through this season of grief, I can come out on the other side a more relatable, compassionate, loving, peaceful version of myself.

For now, my stains reflect pain.  In the future they will display strength.  And celebrations (such as bridal showers) will help the stains to fade.