Open wound.
I was 14 years old the first time it dawned on me. It was late at night and I was laying in bed wide awake, unable to sleep. We had an argument that night—my parents and I. For the life of me, I can’t remember what we were fighting for. Most likely I wanted to quit school, move to a community that was trying to save the planet by writing poems, or spend rest of my days handing out flyers, carrying a cardboard sign around my neck that said: “Will work for food.”
The feeling was overwhelming sadness, mixed with paralyzing horror and gut-ripping regret. First the thought was: What if mom or dad dies tonight? Soon the thought shifted, becoming even more alarming, and thousand times more real: One day, my mom and my dad ARE going to die. I will have to survive life, heart ache, and mistakes I make without them. They won’t be there to buffer my falls, and they won’t stop me from making idiotic mistakes, or lead me back to a better path once I have gone astray.
I will never forget that overpowering feeling. Taking normal breaths became impossible. The thought of someone I loved dying took me over so powerfully, it became a physical, nauseating pain in my stomach. All I wanted was to go and wake them both up, tell them I’m sorry. But instead I stayed awake that night, listening to my dad snore and my mother sleep peacefully with her ear plugs in. I laid and held my teddy bear with a fierce grip. Dad gave it to me one Christmas and said:
“There will be times when, for a reason or another, you are not able to come and hug me or your mom. In those moments, hug this teddy and remember; even if we’re mad at you, or just not there, we will always love you.”
Dad died unexpectedly when I was 20 years old, desperately trying to figure out who I am and what my purpose in life is. The last time I spoke with him, I smuggled a box of his favorite licorice into his hospital room. He hid it under his pillow, away from the nurses’ scanning eyes. We laughed and made plans to share a six pack of beer and eat sausages after his surgery. He was supposed to be home in only a few days.
Losing someone you love leaves a deep wound in you, and against the common belief—time does not heal that wound. It gets ripped open over and over, when you hear a specific song, smell a familiar scent, accidently see an old photograph, or visit a place you once loved.
My wound was torn open last Friday when I watched two ambulance drivers carefully buckle up mom onto a hospital bed and rolled the bed into an ambulance waiting outside. There was something wrong with her heart and we weren’t sure what it was. She stayed in the hospital for four days and was finally released today after doctors cleared her of having anything seriously wrong with her. I should be relieved, but my wound keeps throbbing in pain.
Being afraid of losing your loved one is not all pain and sorrow. That moment of horror will shake you awake. That painfully burning wound will remind you what is essential in life. It’s not your job, your things, nor status or fame. What is essential is people around you, the loved ones and the strangers. Being too quick to love, being too forgiving and being too caring.
Love with all you got, because one day, that love will turn into an open wound, leaving you alone—fiercely grabbing and holding onto a teddy bear.
The feeling was overwhelming sadness, mixed with paralyzing horror and gut-ripping regret. First the thought was: What if mom or dad dies tonight? Soon the thought shifted, becoming even more alarming, and thousand times more real: One day, my mom and my dad ARE going to die. I will have to survive life, heart ache, and mistakes I make without them. They won’t be there to buffer my falls, and they won’t stop me from making idiotic mistakes, or lead me back to a better path once I have gone astray.
I will never forget that overpowering feeling. Taking normal breaths became impossible. The thought of someone I loved dying took me over so powerfully, it became a physical, nauseating pain in my stomach. All I wanted was to go and wake them both up, tell them I’m sorry. But instead I stayed awake that night, listening to my dad snore and my mother sleep peacefully with her ear plugs in. I laid and held my teddy bear with a fierce grip. Dad gave it to me one Christmas and said:
“There will be times when, for a reason or another, you are not able to come and hug me or your mom. In those moments, hug this teddy and remember; even if we’re mad at you, or just not there, we will always love you.”
Dad died unexpectedly when I was 20 years old, desperately trying to figure out who I am and what my purpose in life is. The last time I spoke with him, I smuggled a box of his favorite licorice into his hospital room. He hid it under his pillow, away from the nurses’ scanning eyes. We laughed and made plans to share a six pack of beer and eat sausages after his surgery. He was supposed to be home in only a few days.
Losing someone you love leaves a deep wound in you, and against the common belief—time does not heal that wound. It gets ripped open over and over, when you hear a specific song, smell a familiar scent, accidently see an old photograph, or visit a place you once loved.
My wound was torn open last Friday when I watched two ambulance drivers carefully buckle up mom onto a hospital bed and rolled the bed into an ambulance waiting outside. There was something wrong with her heart and we weren’t sure what it was. She stayed in the hospital for four days and was finally released today after doctors cleared her of having anything seriously wrong with her. I should be relieved, but my wound keeps throbbing in pain.
Being afraid of losing your loved one is not all pain and sorrow. That moment of horror will shake you awake. That painfully burning wound will remind you what is essential in life. It’s not your job, your things, nor status or fame. What is essential is people around you, the loved ones and the strangers. Being too quick to love, being too forgiving and being too caring.
Love with all you got, because one day, that love will turn into an open wound, leaving you alone—fiercely grabbing and holding onto a teddy bear.
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Check out my "Borderline" book series:
“I love to see a young girl go out and grab the world by the lapels. Life's a bitch. You've got to go out and kick ass.”
― Maya Angelou