I was indistinguishable from other humans even in close quarters. I was talking to people and laughing. I found out what they did and talked about our coffee and coffeeshop. It was your typical local networking group but overall rather low-key, relaxed and interesting. It was the type of evening I always enjoy but tonight it was a struggle. No one could tell I was rotting inside.
I have spent my life trying to be genuine, honest, direct, truthful. But now I am living a lie. Suddenly I find myself deceptive, evasive, calculating and misleading. It is not out of malice, though, nor for personal gain. Unless, of course, you count ‘personal gain’ as trying to avoid being in pain all the time. If so, then yes. I am lying to avoid pain. Lying to myself, to my wife, to the World, to anyone that asks.
I am lying when I say I’m fine. There is a low-grade terror that burbles in the background of my life, now. It is that oh-shit oh-shit oh-shit cascade that precedes moments of near disaster.
That feeling is constant, now.
The scary thing is, I’m getting used to it. When my gut drops and I start to sweat for no good reason, that’s no biggie anymore. When my head feels like it could split to shards because of a stray ray of sunlight, that’s fine. With shallow breath and dilated pupils I wallow in the terror. Sometimes I even laugh at it, sneer at it, dismiss it out of hand as something beneath my regard.
I can hold it all inside me and yet still somehow take that next step, meet that new person, bury my head in a batch of fresh roasted coffee, eat that great meal or share a belly laugh and ignore the calculated deceptiveness of my manufactured ease.
We do things because we remember that we used to like them. Yes! Dinner! We liked going out to dinner! Let’s do that! Or, okay, yeah, a walk in the woods. That’s ‘fun’, right? We enjoyed that back when enjoying things was actually enjoyable. We should do that, shouldn’t we?
We should and we will. Sometimes we will tell each other how much fun we are having but in one another’s eyes we can see the lies. It is our secret, though, our Silas. He lies between us always, connecting us to one another despite time and space, in grief and in happiness, awake or asleep, he is always in our hearts, our souls, our minds. And that will always be true.
Elm City Dad 
8 comments
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November 7, 2008 at 5:46 am
Sally
No need to lie around these parts Chris. We know. We get it. And we appreciate your brutal honesty. I wonder when it gets easier though? Not even three months for us, not even two months for you guys. I sense we all have a long way to go. But we’ll get there.
November 7, 2008 at 8:20 am
Cara
Chris- your writing moves me in ways I cannot even express. Yes – you are right…we are all liers. Of course we are, because people want to hear that you are fine. NOW, only weeks out from your worst and most tragic moment ever, they want you to smile and say, “We’re doing allright”. So – we do. What else can we do? Tell the truth? – “Life has no meaning any more and the stuff you-all talk about is pointless. Oh, and by the way, I would happily march right up to Heaven and steal my baby back regardless of the consequences!”. Um – no…that would not play in this society. But Sally’s right – dish the nitty gritty here, we can take it. We have lived it.
And Sally – Almost three months…wow. Time is so evil, isn’t it? It just keeps right on moving while we are rooted in cement, stuck in the moment we lost our little one. Thinking of you as I update the Angel Wall today.
November 7, 2008 at 9:20 am
Claire
C.S. Lewis had a great quote that I can’t exactly remember where he compares grief to fear. There is a constant anxiety in the thick of grief and it can be very lonely too, as only people who have been there know what that constant heart pounding is like. Exercise, even a brisk walk can help, but it is so normal to feel that way.
My husband and I lost a son to shoulder dystocia 6 years ago, in very similar circumstances to yours. I feel for you both so much, and your families. I read here often, and never know exactly what to say, except, you are not alone. One day, it won’t be this bad. I don’t think we are ever “over” losing a child, it is a different world, but there are amazing blessings that can come too. I wish you both as much peace as possible right now.
p.s. I know you have lots of support around you, but if you ever want to talk to someone who has had a very similar experience, I am here for you.
November 7, 2008 at 10:11 am
Sheila
Oh Chris — we think about you all the time and I am reminded always that our good friends, such wonderful people, are in constant pain. The only thing I can say is that even though we don’t know what this terrible tragedy feels like from the inside, you don’t have to lie to your friends either. We will all stand beside you and offer love and support so that it is ubiquitious and stable and constant. You don’t have to exert any unnecessary emotional energy for us, let that all go toward your healing. We are sad with you and angry with you and confused and terrified at the cruelty of life. Please know that your friends are most interested in genuinely supporting you, so if you want to say you’re fine because that’s easier for you, then go with it, but if you want to scream or cry or curse, if you want to let your darkness out to make some room for light, no need to censor yourself for us. We all love and admire you both so much and especially during this time now so full of hope and faith, we hope for your healing and will stand here always ready to listen and read and hug and cry with you.
November 7, 2008 at 10:13 am
Christiaan Cokas
Sometimes I feel guilty for knowing these things. Sometimes I look at you differently because I know. I try and read between the lines and the words and the actions, am I supposed to? Should I be thinking this? The further away we get from all of this makes me feel worse like we are not around enough for you two now. I’ve been feeling like we put it all back in your court now and by that feel as though we drew a line and forced you to deal with it on your own. We are still here, we are still hurting and we still want to help. Honesty is sharp, brutal and eye opening. It’s also hard and embarrassing and true. What’s the next step? What’s the solace? What can we do? We’re working on it…….
November 8, 2008 at 10:11 am
Tad
God I love this post. Why? what is wrong with me? nothing. To feel one 1/1000th of your pain for one split second makes me feel connected to the earth. It gives a window into the darkness that millions of people walk around with but nobody mentions. The comments people have left just melt my heart, I feel like we’re all better humans for reading this page. I cried for a week straight over Silas, then I got over it, then I cried some more. I look up at the night sky and there he is, it’ll never be the same, he changed the sky, the sun and moon. Why did I choose to cry on a sunny Saturday morning? Why does my wife read this page? I don’t know, but I feel like we’re all learning something. Thank-you for being honest about your lying.
November 9, 2008 at 12:53 pm
Jeni
I wish I could hug you.
November 17, 2008 at 10:13 am
Lori
I just can’t help but be struck by the beauty of the comments here. It sounds as though you have some truly remarkable friends.
Five years later, I still lie. Not about happiness, I am happy again- but the untruths continue in more subtle ways. There are just some things you can’t reveal in casual conversation. Or, at least I can’t. The lies are less hurtful now though, they have almost become a part of the story, their story.
I am so deeply sorry for the loss of your son. Truly. I know it is so far from being “fine”.