Words left unsaid. This is one of the hardest things people struggle with after the death of a loved one. I have heard it over and over again while sitting with support groups during these last six years after my son’s transition to spirit. So much guilt, so much regret, over what was said or unsaid, be it I love you, or I’m sorry, or I forgive you, or even goodbye.
Death is so final. Well, death of the body, that is. Certainly, as humans, we ache over the huge loss of physical connection, of the opportunity to hug the one you love so dearly, to see their face light up with a beautiful smile, or hear their voice or the sound of their laughter. Thank goodness for photos. They are helpful to a point. I have spent hours just looking at my son’s face in the multitude of photos left behind, taking in his eyes, his smile, trying to hold on to every nuance. It can almost feel like I am with him again. But not quite. Better than nothing, I say.
But to speak to him, ask him questions, and hear the answers—oh, so much I would ask if I could! I know you might think I’m nuts, but I have continued to speak to my son since his passing. And if I’m still enough and quiet enough and have the patience to wait…I feel I can hear him answer me.
Truth is, I completely believe that he hears me. I have come to a greater understanding of how our loved ones in spirit are still here, albeit in a form that our five senses do not pick up. Quantum physics can confirm that (and no, I am no expert as the subject is hugely complex and my understanding merely scratches the surface). But even if I hadn’t read about or heard many talks on this field of study, my own heart tells me so. You’d be surprised what your heart knows if you’d just allow it to lead you.
My father was a troubled man, and not easy to grow up with. Despite his outward appearance—a man who owned his own attorney service (a necessary business in the 50s and 60s that is obsolete today), dressed five days a week in a suit and tie, and was handsome and charming to many who knew him outside of our family of seven—he was often angry and mean to us. I won’t go into detail about the verbal and emotional abuse I and my siblings (and mother) withstood, but let’s just say that it was quite difficult.
But it took me years to realize I really wasn’t stupid, I really wasn’t worthless, and I really was deserving of love. I have a feeling I’m not the only one who has struggled with those kinds of self-esteem issues.
Though I had spent many years as a teenager and young adult hating my father, that sentiment eventually began to shift. And after he died in 2003, as I matured and developed a larger perspective of life, I came to the realization that my father must have suffered abuse as a child himself, abuse that he would never have told us about because he was from a generation and religious tradition that demanded you “Honor your father and mother.” He strongly believed that if he were to tell us they were less than perfect he would be disrespecting them. That discussion was never going to occur.
I believe that when people are hurt, they hurt others. I came to realize that my dad had done the best he could with all the pain that likely had been inflicted on him. I know that deep down, he truly loved us. Though he is now gone, I have found myself able to forgive him, something I could never have considered years ago. And as time went by, when I thought about him, I told him so.
A couple years ago I had a dream with my father. I was in a room with other people, but then left that room through a door. The small room I entered was all white, and my father was in it. He wore a white t-shirt and white pants. He had his back to me and was facing a white chest of drawers that was about five feet high and stood against one of the white walls. He was trying to stand a piece of paper atop the dresser and against the wall. It was the only thing in the room that had some color. It was about an 8 ½ x 11 sized sheet, and my dad was having trouble making it stand up. It kept falling over, and he would try again.
After a minute or so of that, I softly said, “That’s frustrating, isn’t it?” He then turned around and looked at me. I was immediately drawn to his eyes which held such sadness and remorse. There was pain there, not only for his own suffering, but especially for the suffering he caused me and my siblings. I felt only compassion and love for him.
He did not speak—out loud, that is. There were no words for my ears to hear. But there were words for my heart to hear. And loud and clear I heard, “I’m sorry.”
I went up to him and gently hugged him. As he hugged me back, I said, “I love you, Dad.” And the dream ended.
Well, if that isn’t an apology and offering of forgiveness between worlds, I don’t know what is. The reconciliation had occurred. Not before my father died, but after.
It is never too late to tell your loved one who has passed to the next world you are sorry, or you forgive them, or you love them. They hear you. They are with you. It is only our limited senses that keep us from that awareness.
That was how I survived those first brutal months after my son Eric's transition. When I felt the merciless pain of missing him, I told him I loved him. I told him all the time. I still do. And I have never doubted he could hear me.
And sometimes, when I sit very still, maybe outdoors under the magnificent pine tree in our front yard, feeling the cool breeze blow through my hair and kiss my face, I believe I can hear him tell me, “I love you too, Mom.”
My grief therapist told me after Eric's passing that I would now have a new relationship with him. I didn't get it at first, though I was open to it.
But I do see that now. Not only with my son, but with my father as well. The relationship continues. All that was left unsaid can now be said...I forgive you, I love you. Thank you.
(Read more about my journey from grief to hope in my books Look Around and A Bird Called Wisdom.)
