“Death is not the greatest loss in life. The greatest loss is what dies within us while we live.” Norman Cousins

Alone in the department store

One day I was strolling through Walmart and happened to find myself in a large aisle between two departments. I looked around, observed the people and just walked attentively through the shopping world. I no longer remember whether I had a specific goal or even a shopping list. I don't remember where Penny was either. Maybe she was just having one of the regular check-ups with the doctors trying to get her lung capacity back on track. Or she had physical therapy to increase mobility in her ailing shoulder while learning to come to terms with not being able to use her left hand and living with that disability.

I don't remember why, but I was just in this department store and I was there alone; very alone, as it turned out, only my thoughts could comfort me and guide me, but they didn't.

Each step took me down new aisles and past new buyers. I looked at the people who had a reason to be here, people whose lives were still worth living. My steps slowed, my thoughts deeper.

Since our fateful day in December, we have gradually become more and more aware of how much our lives have changed. But it would be months before we realized what we had lost in the blink of an eye with the death of our children.

Our new identity

Just think! Before, we were a family of four with car seats and diaper bags, always keeping an eye on our kids. People treated us like growing family. Then suddenly the children were gone.

All away.

Our replacement car was almost empty, so driving away was much easier. No extra bags, no spat out clothes. Just the two of us!

At the age of 26 we had been married for five years, had two children and buried two children! People now took us for a young childless couple and had absolutely no idea who we were. Most of our friends had children, but now we were traumatized misfits trying to find our new place. Because of that tragic day, our entire social identity was wiped out.

Even something as simple as shopping changed our lives. We no longer had long lists of all the accessories that parents buy for their children. We had no more cravings for diapers or wipes or cute dresses that were on sale. No, we also lacked enthusiasm when we found something small that would normally have caused a squeal of joy or bright eyes. Everything was different.

We didn't need a lot of groceries either. We seldom ate at home anymore because our table had turned into a living memorial. There the silence of death reigned: no bickering over food, no children's chatter, and two sides of the table were always empty! In the remaining two chairs sat two broken people who ate because they had to eat, not because they wanted to eat. Without a goal and without joy, shopping had also sunk to a mere process.

And as a process it was sometimes healing simply because it took you out of your home - no, it wasn't home, it was just a house. Our home was no more. To escape a house where everything was silent and all we remembered was our empty lives, we went shopping. Shopping was a distraction. It was like a change of scenery. We looked for something in the offerings that might have eased our brokenness.

But that didn't work either. Nothing helped for very long. What money can buy is no substitute for our loved ones. It couldn't bring our old life back. When we bought something for each other, we experienced brief moments of happiness and furtive laughter, but only for a short time. We carried guilt with us because we were still alive. We felt our laughter as disrespect for our children. Every momentary sense of joy was followed by regret, sadness, and a feeling of being a traitor.

Survivors carry with them the delusional feeling that they have sinned and renounced their fellowship with the deceased. How could we express even fleeting happiness if they weren't there! Shopping was something completely different now. It reminded us of our traumatic life, of our journey through Death Valley.

Persecuted in the restaurant

The visit to the restaurant was also a new experience. Since our table at home was a place of torment, we ate out regularly. But even there we were repeatedly ambushed.

We entered the restaurant to feed ourselves and once again to distract ourselves from our emptiness. But there were other families. Every table for four, every high chair, every learning cup caught our eye, even screamed at us. But it wasn't just these visible symbols. Our ears immediately heard the children of all visitors throughout the room. Not ours, but theirs!

Parents' ears are amazingly pointed and won't turn off when the kids stop making noise. The noises of the children tormented us like acoustic attacks. Her innocent laugh seemed like scorn and mockery to us. Every call for mom or dad hit us like a knife. For us, the repeated shouts, trying to get mom or dad's attention, were like Chinese water torture: slowly but surely, they drove us insane.

How gladly would we have shaken the parents and told them that they wanted to savor every moment. But they wouldn't have understood the pained look in our eyes. We knew our children were dead, but we still winced at every whimper, longing to care. We had stood breathlessly in the nursery door and listened to the slightest hint that her chest would rise and fall. Now the fading memory of it played with us as we watched another woman's child sleep peacefully in her arms. Depressed, we dropped our arms to let go of another memory.

There were times when we just couldn't take it anymore and prepared to leave. Then the babble of voices only rattled on the back of our heads, we stammered a lame excuse for leaving early and left the room. Any attempt at a more detailed explanation would only have been greeted with blank looks and awkward words anyway. So we retreated into the involuntary silence of our car and cried. Finally, the hunger reported again and a drive-through offered comfort in the loneliness of our suffering. These are a few examples of how our world had changed.

From hero to total failure

As I was strolling through Walmart, I thought about it. I rolled in my emptiness and felt the paradoxical loneliness that traumatized people experience: surrounded by many, they are all alone! Lost in thought, I wasn't prepared for what I was about to experience. Like a trained murderer who only waits for the right moment and only needs to strike once, one of the deepest wounds from the accident should reopen and pounce on me. It was the pain that no X-ray machine can detect and no medicine can relieve.

As I turned down an aisle, I saw a kid get up in his shopping cart. Not in the big basket, where it would be relatively safe, no, in the child seat with the belts. The girl was not sitting. She was standing, shuffling, calling to her parents, who I couldn't see. She leaned over and called out. But there was no one to be seen.

An inexplicable horror gripped me immediately. As in a flashback, I saw my own child fall down and hurt himself. Fear and darkness surrounded me and I felt fainting racing towards me with screeching brakes. All I saw before me was pain and death, but what could I do? I was too far away to help. One misjudgment or one bump and the child would fall headfirst onto the concrete floor and seriously injure themselves. My sanity began to falter in the face of such feelings. I couldn't fail again! I had to save "my" child!

His face was blurred now because I didn't know if I was seeing reality or just experiencing a realistic flashback. I approached the child. So that it wouldn't be startled, I didn't run. Nevertheless, I went purposefully and quickly. I looked around desperately for the parents, but I couldn't see them. Who in their right mind would let their child do that? Don't you see how quickly everything can change? Indignation and anger welled up in me.

No parents! Where were you?

I was alone in sight of this latent catastrophe. I got closer and closer until I was finally within reach. Should the child fall, I could at least jump to catch his head before it shattered on the unforgiving concrete floor. I didn't care what pain the scenario cost me. I couldn't fail. Certainly all the intensity and determination was written all over my face.

Just then, the mother appeared out of nowhere and surveyed the situation. My face. my concentration My immediate closer to her child! If looks could kill! To this day I can't bear the memory of that look. All she could see was someone whose proximity was dangerous for her child! Perhaps a pervert or a child molester stalking their innocent sweetheart, who paradoxically chose Walmart as a crime scene to sneak away with their child and appear as a portrait holding the child on the missing children's poster! So there I was, close enough to reach her dear child!

Yes, her piercing, keen stare was justified. I understood her in my head, but she couldn't read my heart. She didn't know the storm that raged inside me, the good will that drove me. No, I didn't want to cause pain, I wanted to help. But she couldn't see that. Her look spoke volumes. Like a mother bear with cubs, she stared at me to make me flinch.

Of course I did too.

Not only was I unable to provide assistance, I had been pigeonholed into the lowest social class even though I was only trying to do good. The judgments and stares of the crowd I imagined seemed to surround me. Guilt, desperation, worthlessness, malice, impotence, misfits, disgust - every word, every emotion came alive, kicking at me and driving me away. Like a hero who rushes to save a prisoner from the oncoming train, only to see the prisoner snatched away at the last moment and the hero branded the perpetrator of the dastardly deed, bound in his place and destroyed, the shame bears the pain and finally death. I hobbled away, avoiding being seen and hoping security wouldn't approach me.

What a total failure I was!

continuation               Part 1 of the series             In English

From: Bryan C. Gallant, Undeniable, An Epic Journey Through Pain, 2015, pages 69-75

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