Frozen in Time

We are living in historic times. Unprecedented decisions have been made on a daily basis, almost faster than we can process the information.

Events that have very rarely been canceled are disappearing. The Calgary Stampede, The CNE. Oktoberfest in Germany and so many more. The Olympics, only once ever canceled during World War II, were postponed until next year.

People are staying home. When they go out, they avoid others, giving everyone a wide berth on the streets, in the stores.

Even with all these precautions, thousands are dying. Sadness reigns for many who are losing their loved ones and having to watch it from afar.

And yet, with all of this change, all of this pain, the world itself is healing. No one can deny that the air is cleaner. There are cases from around the world, of pollution and smog reseeding. The water is coming clearer in places where the pollution had been overwhelming, like the Canal's in Venice. In Brazil, sea turtles are returning to the empty beaches to lay their eggs.

The human race was forced to take a breath and hold it - and while it happened, the earth blossomed. Time stopped for a short time.

The loss of a child is like that. Time stops. You take a breath and hold it and hope that when you let it go and take the next one, things will have returned to normal.

During these months in lock down, as a bereaved mother, it was so easy to hide at home, hold that breath and pretend that time had stopped. I had already been doing it for over a year, so the transition was almost seamless. I had already spent months, hiding at home, binge watching TV, trying to quiet my mind from the truth of my life. All of a sudden, the rest of the world was at home too, and I didn’t have to pretend anymore. It was now the "normal" for everyone to stay at home.

The pandemic is not over but in Canada, we flattened the curve of this virus. We needed to begin the process of opening up. We are starting to return to our old life- we are slowly releasing that breath we took.

I have to admit there are things that are wonderful about opening up. As I write this I am sitting on the patio at Starbucks. Being able to do this is both restful and restorative, for me.

There are changes as we get out there.

Going out now requires wearing a mask. It is the ultimate irony for those of us grieving. We already wear a 'mask'. I have been wearing a figurative mask for months. I put it on, to be able to function. I put it on to cover my pain. Now I can wear a real mask, save lives and literally cover my pain.

Going out means people get to see each other in person. Sitting here, it is good to see others around me, to have that human contact. People were complaining they were sick of communicating only through two dimensional ways. I am so very happy for others to be able to get that back, but it brought into sharp focus for me, that I never will. What remains of CJ, my son, is only 2D. I wish I had the choice to change that, but in no way begrudge others what they can regain.

I am joining with others in getting back out there. I see the need for us to resume time.But as the world let’s go of the breath they have been holding, as they get back to normal, I still hold mine.

My brain tells me what I don't want to accept - that time goes on. I know that I have no power to stop it. My heart though, doesn't want to let go of that breath. I don’t want to start the clock ticking again. I don’t want to finally accept that there is no more normal for me. I'm not ready. Maybe some day, but not today. For now, that is okay.