Remember the pain

Critical moments call for critical reflection

On February 15, 1898, the USS Maine, a battleship anchored in Havana harbor, exploded, killing 266 Americans and igniting a cry that led to war between Spain (who held Cuba as a colony at the time) and the United States: “Remember the Maine!” In the months ahead, this phrase rallied the troops and brought to public awareness the relatively unknown Teddy Roosevelt, who would soon become President after the assassination of William McKinley.

As the days tick away to the first year anniversary of my wife’s death, I am more preoccupied than I thought I might be with the approaching day in mid-March. It seems that we humans have an innate need to mark critical moments in our life, whether it’s the annual celebration of our day of birth, or our wedding anniversary, or employment length of service, or, in my immediate case, the day when I said my final goodbye to Claudia.

But the thing about it is this: it was not my final goodbye. It was, technically speaking, my final goodbye while her body was still reputedly alive due to life support means. It was not, I have discovered, the last time I would speak to her or remember her or wish her goodbye. From my cratered heart of loss there is a continuing echo of goodbye, day by day. Some days the echo is very faint, light a spring breeze tickling newly emerging greenery; and there are other days when the echo is a blasting, thunderous gale of winter rage. But always this continues to be a hard goodbye.

Over my life I have learned from others that pain is at minimum an annoyance, and at most a challenge to be defied. Are you familiar with any of these phrases?

• No pain, no gain

• You have to push through the pain

• Pain is a figment of the imagination

• Mind (logic) over matter (illusory pain)

• No guts, no glory

In my sixty-one years of life I have been pushed to avoid pain, to eliminate it, to banish it, to ignore it, to endure it. But I have never been encouraged to embrace it as an opportunity for critical reflection. By critical reflection, I mean the intentional practice of identifying the pain, considering it source and thoughtfully pursuing its growth potential.

It’s not that we humans seek pain (it seems to find its way in our lives on its own very well). Most of us aren’t masochists who find delight in misfortune. We seek contentment and peace and calm, because a quieted soul is the basis for a quality life. So I am not seeking more pain in my life; I am simply considering what to do with pain when it arrives, because it surely will.

Some pain is momentary, of relatively quick duration. We slice our finger while chopping vegetables, so we tend to the blood flow, encase the damage in a bandaid and wait for healing to occur. At times pain is episodic and then it is done. We recover from a surgical procedure which is difficult, and day by day our health returns. All pain is not of the same calibre or duration.

But there is long-term, chronic pain that never leaves us. Its effects may come and go, the intensity level increasing at times, then leveling off or dissipating. I find that significant personal loss is a long-term, chronic pain that may always be with me, to one degree or another. It is not disabling pain (well, it doesn’t need to be), and I can have a relatively good life even in its presence, but it still is there.

The question, then, is what to do with this lingering reality, this reminder that life is mostly very challenging? I am learning to remember the pain, because it can provide a pathway for me into deeper awareness.

• When I feel the loss of my wife’s presence, I use that as a moment for gratitude, grateful for the time we shared together.

• When I become teary contemplating a time now gone, I am thankful that those days were memorable enough to evoke tears.

• When I see her influence in our children’s and grandchildren’s lives, I find contentment knowing that her best features are living forward in others.

• When I receive an email or text from one of her former work colleagues, I rejoice that she is yet remembered and not forgotten.

• When at night, as I slip into the bed she and I shared for many years, I can whisper a “thank you, God” for the three decades we were one another’s supporter and friend.

Like grief (which I have written about previously), which I chose to befriend rather than to oppose, I am choosing to remember the pain because it opens for me the opportunity to make sense of my loss. In itself, sheer pain is not redemptive, but acknowledging it and using it as a rallying cry for deeper life makes pain my open door to find eventual peace.

With grief as my friend and pain as my teacher, I continue to become a better person. I wish there were an easier way, but if there is I haven’t found it yet.

So for now, I’ll remember the pain, and continue to stretch forward in my life.