Letting Go of Pain
A true friend stabs you in the front
--Oscar Wilde
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Releasing a painful past is difficult, especially since the event causing the pain had so significantly defined us for a short but intense period.
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In releasing the pain, do we release the event altogether? Does releasing the pain deny that the event occurred? Is it time to begin redefining ourselves? I ask these questions using plural pronouns as I cannot separate my individual struggle (yes, pain) from my family’s struggle (in whatever ways it manifested but, in the end, pain).
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In August 2008, in celebration of three friends who turned fifty, a group of fourteen took a one-week cruise up Alaska’s inside passage. Four amongst us were teenagers, one of whom turned fifteen at sea. The trip marked the first time Michael and I had traveled together without our children since their births. It took careful consideration, coordination, and collaboration. It was significant.
In August 2008, in celebration of three friends who turned fifty, a group of fourteen took a one-week cruise up Alaska’s inside passage. Four amongst us were teenagers, one of whom turned fifteen at sea. The trip marked the first time Michael and I had traveled together without our children since their births. It took careful consideration, coordination, and collaboration. It was significant.
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These people are my “Big Chill” group, the name coming from the 1983 movie. Aboard ship we were once again that group of young men and women living in the Haight-Ashbury, Noe Valley, and Castro District of San Francisco in the first half of the 1980s. Our past took place in the midst of an AIDS epidemic, struggles with graduate school, lovers with all preferences of lifestyles, seeking careers and the individual paths that would later define us--or, at least, would define us for a moment of time. We have managed to keep in touch with each other through marriages, lovers, childbirths, and adoptions. We try to see each other once a year and succeed about 50 percent of the time. But this trip required 100 percent participation. We did it, and we were grateful for the week we spent at sea with each other.
These people are my “Big Chill” group, the name coming from the 1983 movie. Aboard ship we were once again that group of young men and women living in the Haight-Ashbury, Noe Valley, and Castro District of San Francisco in the first half of the 1980s. Our past took place in the midst of an AIDS epidemic, struggles with graduate school, lovers with all preferences of lifestyles, seeking careers and the individual paths that would later define us--or, at least, would define us for a moment of time. We have managed to keep in touch with each other through marriages, lovers, childbirths, and adoptions. We try to see each other once a year and succeed about 50 percent of the time. But this trip required 100 percent participation. We did it, and we were grateful for the week we spent at sea with each other.
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The days were filled with adventures. We all ventured off the boat in different directions: ocean kayaking, cycling to blue glaciers, dog sledding, helicopter rides, train rides to sites that Jack London had used as settings for his stories. Between the fourteen of us, we covered a lot of ground.
The days were filled with adventures. We all ventured off the boat in different directions: ocean kayaking, cycling to blue glaciers, dog sledding, helicopter rides, train rides to sites that Jack London had used as settings for his stories. Between the fourteen of us, we covered a lot of ground.
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Our group dinners every night at 8:00 P.M. celebrated the events of the day, and our table of ten was always the last to leave so the tolerant wait staff could clear it. The volume of our laughter consistently exceeded acceptable decibel levels, but not once were we reprimanded. It was the time spent around the table that meant the most to me. These friends had supported Michael and me through our cancer adventure.
Our group dinners every night at 8:00 P.M. celebrated the events of the day, and our table of ten was always the last to leave so the tolerant wait staff could clear it. The volume of our laughter consistently exceeded acceptable decibel levels, but not once were we reprimanded. It was the time spent around the table that meant the most to me. These friends had supported Michael and me through our cancer adventure.
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When it came time to sign up for the “On Deck for the Cure” walk around the ship, we all walked or ran at our own pace. With whales swimming off our port bow in the still, blue-gray waters, I could think of no better place to let go of my pain. In releasing remnants of whatever I held onto from the past three-plus years, I gained more in love and faith of these friendships sustained. It was this group who showed me,
When it came time to sign up for the “On Deck for the Cure” walk around the ship, we all walked or ran at our own pace. With whales swimming off our port bow in the still, blue-gray waters, I could think of no better place to let go of my pain. In releasing remnants of whatever I held onto from the past three-plus years, I gained more in love and faith of these friendships sustained. It was this group who showed me,
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“We’ll share your pain until you feel it no longer.”
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And they did.
