It always started in the pit of her stomach . . . that feeling like you really need or want to retch but you have no idea why.  And then it flowed into her chest with a crushing force that took her breath away.  Within seconds her heart was pounding, her cheeks felt as though they were on fire, and her head as though it would explode.  All she wanted to do was hide—or seek the oblivion of sleep—until it was over . . . but all she could do was pace or clean or whatever she could manage to work off the nervous energy that alternated with the need to just sit and be consumed.

It happened at the most random times.  She didn’t have to be thinking of him; she could be watching TV or working or gathering with friends.  It could be the middle of the morning . . . or the middle of the night.  Nothing seemed to serve as a trigger . . . nothing and everything.  No matter how much she wanted to—no matter how hard she tried—to make it stop, these overwhelming physical responses to something continued to torment her.  It was almost as though her life had turned into one long horror movie, the kind where there are scenes that promise you peace and safety before snatching it away and plunging you into the darkest place imaginable.

Desperate for something to fill her mind and soothe her soul when these moments came, she turned to Pinterest.  A strange place, you may think, but she wanted something—some quote or picture or poem—that she could commit to memory and stick on the refrigerator door . . . and the bathroom mirror . . . and the door that led to the outside world.  It would become her mantra, something she could turn to when the feelings became overwhelming.  She searched for quotes on peace . . . and comfort . . . and strength . . . and then grief.  It wasn’t the remedy she found there, but the explanation.

Following the tragic death of his beloved wife, C. S. Lewis observed “No one ever told me that grief felt so much like fear.”  It was this quote . . . written in white letters surrounded by black . . . that was a perfect summation of the state in which she found herself.  No one had ever told her.  No one had ever explained how much the two were related.  No one had ever likened grief to endlessly waiting for something that will never be . . . but has already been.

Knowledge is a powerful thing but it is not the cure for all that ails us—and it was not the cure for her.  But it did give her the weapon she needed to combat those moments.  It gave her understanding, and with the understanding came strength and patience.  This would not last forever—and then, again, perhaps it would.  But the moments would grow farther apart and the panic would be less all-consuming.  There might always be moments of grief, disguised as fear, but at least now she would see them for what they truly were.  The end result of love.

About the author:  Lisa Shackelford Thomas is a fourth generation member of a family that’s been in funeral service since 1926.  She has been employed at Shackelford Funeral Directors in Savannah, Tennessee for over 40 years and currently serves as the manager there.  Any opinions expressed here are hers and hers alone, and may or may not reflect the opinions of other Shackelford family members or staff.

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