Pushing the rock
I’ve said it before, but in losing Ian, I lost a lot of my purpose. And not just in Ian himself, but also in my inability to work with disabled people anymore. In reality, I think I can’t do it anymore because I’m tired of fighting. Being so immersed in the disability world is like pushing a rock up a hill for eternity. There’s always a problem to be solved. Always new treatments to try. Always new ailments to heal. Always people to sue. Always unjust laws and policies to change. Always yearning for fairness, inclusion, and kindness.
There’s a person in Greek Mythology, Sisyphus, who’s punishment in the underworld was pushing a giant bolder up hill, only for it to roll back down, for all of time. This was his punishment for cheating death twice. Hence, tasks that are both laborious and futile are referred to as “Sisyphean”. I couldn’t help but see myself in this myth. I could consider all of the work I’d done for the disability community, and for Ian himself, Sisyphean.
But I actually did it. I changed policies. I’ve definitely been a person that has changed life’s course for a few students. I made policy changes with the school board for my children. I’ve made changes in patient care for myself, my children, and my clients. I’ve educated people on brain injuries and drownings. I was a moving piece in a $20million allotment for health insurance for disabled people. The rock is at the top. I’m not going to push it anymore. I’ve finished that fight and now I’m going to let it sit and hope people can learn from the work it took to get there. I’ve seen so many parents do wonderful, impactful things to honor their child’s life after they’ve lost them, I was lucky enough to do that while he was still alive-he actually got to witness it.
And then there’s that whole part about cheating death. Personally, I should have been killed ten ways from Sunday, for a variety of reasons. However, I’m drawn to the connection I have to people with brain injuries-all people who have cheated death (most of them did actually die at one point). But really, the old me did die too. Losing a child means you have to learn to live a completely different life. As a parent, when you look at the world, you subconsciously see how everything little thing will impact your child. So when they’re gone, it is just different. The life without Ian is sad, yet ultimately renewed. I now notice and admire more about my children. I will now never waiver on doing what’s best for them. I will not waste one more second on being judge mental, because, damn, if any of you feel like me I don’t want to contribute to your suffering.
The rock has been put to rest at the top. The death that has been cheated has been absolved. I do not have to live a laborious and futile, Sisyphean, life anymore. Time to just love instead of fight.