When I met Carla I knew that she and I were kindred and kin. Sisters from another mother. She is a thoughtful creative & artist, a wordsmith who is actively cutting a path through grief on her own terms, and an integrator who takes her emotions and synthesizes them into art.
In this reflective piece, she takes us through her harrowing journey of loss and the slow, somatic process of learning to live in harmony with her sorrow. All while finding growth and resilience through accepting grief’s transformative power and planting the seeds of hope even amidst the darkness.
In her own words, she shares her story…
The Hit That Unhinged Her Family
It was a clear and sunny day in August 2019. My family and I were driving on an Alberta highway to Saskatchewan on our way back to Ontario after living in Vancouver for two years where I worked.
At that time, submarine sandwiches were a staple of our family when we’d go on long drives or outings. It was the most economical way to feed our family of five: me, my husband, Bob, our ten-year-old son Zachary, my daughter Lillian who was eight, and Gabriel who had just turned seven. “Quiznos is better than Subway.” My ten-year-old son Zachary cooed with satisfaction from his third-row corner seat. We often took him there as an infant when Bob and I went on mini-dates. His curiosity was satisfied.
With full bellies and the comfort of being together, he relaxed into a doze, and we rode on.
Driving a few kilometers, we came upon a large stretch of traffic, slowed due to a construction zone. As our lane ended, my husband merged into a clearing and stopped a car length behind a transport truck. We all sat quietly waiting for the line to move when I noticed another transport truck approaching us from behind at an unsafe speed in a construction zone.
All I had time to think was: “At least we’ll all be together.” I turned to warn Bob, but everything turned black.
We were hit by a fatigued truck driver. He had been having an emphysema-induced coughing fit as he approached our vehicle. He clipped the back corner of our minivan where Zachary was sleeping. Zachary was taken from this life instantly. The rest of us would sustain permanently disabling injuries.
MOMENTS AFTER…
I was the first to awake, instantly knowing that hell had been unleashed on my life. I couldn’t see Zach as he was two rows behind me but everyone else was breathing. I paused, overwhelmed. I took a breath and heard from somewhere within: “Don’t call for Zach. You’ll scare the other children if you fall apart, and they won’t survive.” I obeyed this intuition and I was able to stir Bob awake as paramedics arrived and helicopters were landing.
Onlookers left their vehicles to help, held my hand, and prayed with me as the first responders removed each family member. I ended up being the last to be rescued from the vehicle, pulled out with the jaws of life shortly before the sounds of my surviving children being airlifted to the hospital filled the air. At least, I knew they were safe.
In the midst of the chaos, I managed to be surprisingly calm. I had no life-threatening open wounds, and being in shock, I didn’t feel much pain. But I remember sensing that if I panicked, or worried about anyone else, in any way, I would certainly die.
As it turned out, the impact caused a thoracic aortic aneurysm. My heart nearly ruptured, so perhaps screaming or excessive crying might have caused enough stress on my body to break my heart completely.
So later, I wept only softly, while I lay on a hospital gurney as the doctors stabilized me. One of the nurses joked as she cut my clothes from my body, “I hope these aren’t your favorite jeans.” They were. Her ill-timed humor topped off my grief with rage.
I questioned God, “How could this have happened?”
I had been raised in a Caribbean, Pentecostal Christian home and I have been saved since a young child. Beyond the dogma that I always questioned, I was a believer that God has all the answers. My faith was – and still is – the fuel to who I am.
I reminded God of the protection promised to those who trust in Him.
CROSSING THE THRESHOLD OF GRIEF
Yet, in the shock of a living nightmare, I found myself at the threshold of an existence that was drastically, and unrecognizably transformed. There was no rebuilding or going back to normal. I could only choose a new life or die from my life-threatening injuries. Death would bring me back to my son, but separate me from my family who still needed me.
I knew, because I still drew breath that the rest of us lived, that our work wasn’t done. But I was tired. I was tired.
My past and future collapsed into this present tragedy. My heart was too broken to hold anything more.
I was completely undone.
I wanted to give up on my purpose but those thoughts detoured through my heart. I knew that was not the way. My will kept shifting direction like winds during a storm but the truth was clear.
Who I was, who I hoped to be, was inconsequential. I had to step across the threshold of who I was and who I thought I would be, into unknown parts of who I am and will grow into.
I could only focus on the x-factor: me. With my soul fractured by disappointment, and my body and brain broken from the physical injuries, I realized I had to focus on myself.
I had to overcome myself. But how does one overcome oneself? For me, it began with getting comfortable grieving.
LESSONS IN GRIEVING
1 – EMBRACE THE UNCERTAIN END
At first, grief made me see death everywhere. Instead of distracting myself away from the feelings, I began holding space for my body to feel the weightiness of it all.
I started spending time walking in nature. I noticed the beginnings and endings of each season that bring flora and fauna. Fears of death and loss are dissolved to become part of the flow of exchange in everyday life. I wanted the grieving process to go faster. But, nature never rushes.
Here’s what I’ve learned…
2 – GO SLOW
For me, holding the weight of grief became easier when I accepted that it was heavy. There is no “getting over” some kinds of grief. Losing my son has made the mundane feel formidable. I have more days that require a slowness I couldn’t negotiate before. Other days require rest and a stillness so profound, it would be like taking a vacation except for the physical pain.
Healthful grieving is not a marathon. Nor is it a race to return to performative actions that indicate to the world “I’m okay.” Allowing myself to feel the weight of grief was daunting on the good days, and frightening on the hard days. Applying notions of efficiency to any of the grieving processes only slows restoration and recovery.
In any case, when somatic memories and trauma make it so my body compels me to take careful time and slow down, grief has softened my restlessness. I manage the weight of my grief by carrying it carefully and using the slowness to strengthen my ability to be present with myself.
2 – SURRENDER
Emotions need to be released to heal but that can be difficult when the release comes like a flood.
I learned to relinquish the notion of “getting over the flood”. This allowed the feelings to carry me instead of burying me.
I used somatic work to retrain my body to be a safe place to fully express my heart and mind. And I learned to allow emotions to lift me out of the denser parts of sadness.
Trusting that I already know how to rise (and I do), I now had to learn how to rest.
The lesson that is perhaps the hardest thing I continue to try to grasp: sinking into grief isn’t resignation, it’s surrender. Surrendering to grief transmutes it from a void to be feared to a womb where we can be held while we heal.
THE PARADIGM SHIFT
The biggest obstacle I have to overcome isn’t really an obstacle at all. It is a wholesale paradigm shift. My insights so far challenge prevailing notions that the goal is overcoming grief. When your worst fear comes true, what is left to overcome but grief?
To live without my son and still be present for my family, I had to consider a life where I will never stop grieving. Can grief and joy co-habitat in a happy life? Five years later with help, I’m beginning to believe so. I’ve shared some of what I’ve learned so far.
In my grief, I observed how much of creation begins in the dark and grows in the light. The first thing I had to learn was to sit in with my darkness without fear. To love in the dark without judgment.
The bravery I found in grieving was the principle that helped me cross the threshold to living authentically, even without the physical presence of my firstborn son. There is little more terrifying than constantly anticipating the pain of his memory. But allowing grief to hold me in his memory, nourishes me back into wanting.
It has helped me process the guilt of feeling powerless to protect and provide for my family and required me to examine the parts of myself I kept in the dark, sacred spaces of my broken heart and troubled mind.
Perhaps, I wouldn’t have this awareness without the experience of my great loss. I have to overcome the weight of this paradox daily.
Overcoming my fear of grieving has allowed me to feel connected to my son. And find rest and freedom in my sadness. The tears of my grief water seeds of hope. I am learning to honor what I’ve hoped for and lost. A new faith grows within me.
If we allow it, I believe grieving opens us up to see what is growing out of the unnoticed and unmeasured parts of ourselves, others, and the world around us.
To grieve is to honor the love of life that has transitioned and points us to the life that remains. And that still has the opportunity to live. Overcome the fear of grief and it will cradle us into becoming new.
Things Grow in Darkness: A poem
Caterpillars transforming in cocoons
A person begins in the womb.
Creation begins in the dark,
That’s why seeds grow there, too.
Seeds that grow in the soil
Gather from those who came before….
….with roots that multiply and
Go deep to find water,
And spread way out, wide,
to rise to the light.
BIO:
Carla Chambers-Jeffreys lives in Ontario, Canada with her two children and husband. She is an artist who spends her days caring for her family and healing herself through sharing food, writing, singing, feeling, daydreaming, and resting.
Learn more about her artistic projects and connect with her here:
