The Detour

01/06/06

It’s silent right now, and I realize that’s what I needed. No TV, no radio, no phone—just silence, and I can breathe.

It’s been two years today, and for a moment, I could hear nothing but the clock ticking on the wall. Two years ago today, at this time, I had found out just an hour earlier that my wife had been killed. I was overwhelmed by the silence. The world had stopped; my senses were in a vacuum, and the world around me was a void. There was nothing but the deafening roar of silence, broken only by the sound of my heart being torn apart.

Today, as I look around, I know that my whole world has changed beyond anything I could have imagined two years ago.

I have been forced to reexamine my every thought, my every belief, and my every action. That has been my experience with the grief process; I have seen a level of introspection I never wanted to. But on this side, I think I am emerging better—different, to be sure, but better. I think I may be becoming who I wanted to be, someone Stacy would have been proud of.

I see enough to know that the process has only begun in the grand scheme of things, but I’m far enough into it to see a change. There is still so much unanswered, so much I don’t know. Most of it, I realize, I may never know the answer to, and I may never understand. I know this, though, as I look around: I have been blessed!

To look back at two years ago—how I felt and what I thought—I realize that saying I have been blessed is the most shocking, unimaginable thing I could ever say. Yet, it is still the truth. The past two weeks, as usual, I have been a wreck, and I’m sure I have not been pleasant to be around, but today I have some peace. That’s just how it seems to go for me. The anticipation is worse; it always has been, and I guess it always will be.

I have met some amazing people over the past two years. I look back and realize that I have been angry—understandably angry, nonetheless. I have been withdrawn; “antisocial” is more like it. And still, in the middle of my anger and despite my best attempts to avoid the world at large, I have met people who love me. I have met people who care and are looking out for me, even when I did not know it. I have met people I’ve known most of my life that I never really knew. All of these people, whether they knew Stacy or not, have had one thing in common: they have handled me with kid gloves. The ones who knew Stacy have set their own grief aside to tend to me. For the first time, I see that now.

My focus has always been on the ones who did not do this; I could not see the forest for the trees, as it were. Despite my lack of perspective, they have loved me just the same.

There is always something new on this road. I never would have chosen it, to be sure, and I will never be glad that I am on it, but it’s nice to be able to see the beauty while I am here. I read a quote a couple of weeks ago by an unknown author:

“Happy is the man who is able to see the beauty even on a detour.”

I hope that is the theme for the year to come. I’m off to a good start because, for the first time in a long time, I have “hope.” I remember clearly the day hope died; it’s nice to feel its resurrection in my heart. It’s scary at times, this life; I guess the fear is a sign that I am living, though.

I hope to maintain this attitude for some time to come. I really do. There would be no greater way to honor my wife than that. That was how she lived; she always saw the beauty, even on the detours.