Brianna Allen
They speak of all kinds of numb here in the North. The been outside for five hours and the snow has soaked through my layers numb; the wood stove went out again numb; ice fishing all day long in 30 mph winds numb. There are many types of numb we all know, love to hate, and discuss here in the North. No one talks about the emotional numb that we may come across in our lifetime, however. The sitting in silence, not feeling the earth beneath you, staring at the floor numbness. The hole in your chest, static in your brain numb. The numbness of losing a loved one, your best friend, or even yourself. Everyone talks lightly about the harsh winter numbness we all experience, but no one prepares you for the detrimental numbness of your soul that comes with tragedy.
When I was just eight years old, I first experienced this soul withering numbness. My step father was introduced to me when I was three, was diagnosed with cancer when I was six, and was harshly taken from me and my family when I was eight. May 9th, 2006 started as a normal school day for me and my four siblings, until we were all called out of school, told that today was the day we were to go say goodbye to our father and step-father. I will spare the gory details of the two prior years, how we watched this man, who had help raise us, wither away, death knocking on the door he sat in front of, waiting to take him away. When we got to the hospital my mother was sitting on his left side, holding his limp hand, telling us that even though he couldn’t respond, he could hear us, and we should tell him anything that is on our minds and in our hearts. To look at one of your family members as they lay in a bed with tubes coming out of every orifice, is terrifying; but to eight-year old me, this was just the moment my brain stopped working. I gave the half-assed goodbye, telling my comatose step-father that I love him and will miss him. Each one of us went in the room by ourselves, while the others sat in the linked family room through a solid wooden door. I sat in that room for what seemed like days, as each of my siblings said goodbye. That room still comes to me in my dreams sometimes – the pale blue walls with dark wood trim and dark blue stiff, plastic couches. The huge television wardrobe that held a 32” television, wood matching the trim. I sat in that room for hours in silence, eyes fixated on the dark blue carpet with red texture. I sat in that room for hours with ears that did not work, everything sounding like it came from a mile away. I sat in that room in silence for hours, thinking I was going deaf, until the loud screeches of my mother hit my ear, like she was screaming right in my ear.
A numbness hit my chest in this moment, as if my heart had left with my step father’s soul. Minutes, hours, days may have passed. At one point the preacher came in and said a prayer, but, to this day, I’m not sure a single person in that room could have told you what he said. At some point we must have gone home, and some point the day must have turned into the next, which turned into the next, which eventually turned into the day of the funeral. The day of the funeral was dreary. The skies cried cold, early May rain, mimicking my step father’s loved ones as they stood around his six-foot-deep home in the ground. They said their goodbyes in silence, sending their hearts to the sky, as I stood there, paralyzed, unable to feel what the people around me felt.
No one warns you about the numbness that overcomes you when tragedy strikes – how your heart may leave your body for days, months, or even years. Everyone is ready to tell you of the good that will come of it one day – how you will be stronger, wiser, happier even. Everyone hands out advice to look to the future, while only some have the capacity to hold your cold hand through the hurt. It’s hard to see the lighter side of numbness, to laugh at your own temporary inability to feel. I turned a blind eye to the light, letting numbness make a home inside my carcass. Until one day I felt, like the tingling of a foot waking up feels, I felt. I felt all of the pain that had built up for years, and I cried. I cried for six years, until I had let it all out. And then I rose up, tall and strong, like a sunflower fully grown to stand in the light. I grew from my tragedy; I grew strong, happy, and proud of who I am and what raised me. Nobody warns you of the numbness that life can bring to you. We don’t talk about it like the weather. But, just like the winters of the North come and go, so do the seasons of our hearts and grief. June comes around and brings flowers and sunshine, just as life will bring light after a cold, dark winter.