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First time in a long time that I’ve lowered the flag for any reason.
As a parent who has lost a child, I can tell you we will always hear their voices, the laughs, see and hear things that bring their memory alive as if they never left.
And the guilt of being alive while they are gone, of the brutal and totally helpless feeling of not being able to save them from pain and fear and harm.
For the rest of your life when you see a child with a teddy bear and have to look away.
For when your pets go searching and sniffing and can’t find their pal. When you find their baseball glove in a packed away box and just want to put your hand in it so you can feel the contour of their precious little hand.
When you come across a nice picture of your child and your mind goes flying and spinning back through time and lands you right there with them. You can feel their air, their vibe and get lost in that feeling of parental pride.
And then you slam into the ground at a millions miles an hour.
But … within days you swallow hard and limit the grief to minutes, in months it becomes seconds and with years it’s perhaps a microsecond.
But it’s still a hundred times a day. It’s all the same but you process it faster.
Like the hottest knife or the deepest needle you can ever imagine shoved through your heart and into the part of the brain that activates grief, hope, cope and strength.
If you can do something today, if you have the time, write a letter to the high school in Tumbler Ridge, or mayor of Tumbler Ridge or to the RCMP or BC Paramedics, or the Health Centre, or the Fire Department.
Just tell them you’re thinking of them, the families, the survivors, the first responders, the community. Just 20 or 30 words, real words for real people. But make it a letter.
I’m telling you the process of opening a letter and receiving warm thoughts is comforting.
Thank you.
As a parent who has lost a child, I can tell you we will always hear their voices, the laughs, see and hear things that bring their memory alive as if they never left.
And the guilt of being alive while they are gone, of the brutal and totally helpless feeling of not being able to save them from pain and fear and harm.
For the rest of your life when you see a child with a teddy bear and have to look away.
For when your pets go searching and sniffing and can’t find their pal. When you find their baseball glove in a packed away box and just want to put your hand in it so you can feel the contour of their precious little hand.
When you come across a nice picture of your child and your mind goes flying and spinning back through time and lands you right there with them. You can feel their air, their vibe and get lost in that feeling of parental pride.
And then you slam into the ground at a millions miles an hour.
But … within days you swallow hard and limit the grief to minutes, in months it becomes seconds and with years it’s perhaps a microsecond.
But it’s still a hundred times a day. It’s all the same but you process it faster.
Like the hottest knife or the deepest needle you can ever imagine shoved through your heart and into the part of the brain that activates grief, hope, cope and strength.
If you can do something today, if you have the time, write a letter to the high school in Tumbler Ridge, or mayor of Tumbler Ridge or to the RCMP or BC Paramedics, or the Health Centre, or the Fire Department.
Just tell them you’re thinking of them, the families, the survivors, the first responders, the community. Just 20 or 30 words, real words for real people. But make it a letter.
I’m telling you the process of opening a letter and receiving warm thoughts is comforting.
Thank you.
