The Invisible Wound

On June 25, 1992, my oldest sister and I took a bike ride with our friends. Coming home the local diner, we rode down a reeeeeeeally steep hill before turning onto our road. In retrospect, it really wasn't all that steep, but as a ten-year-old, fifteen degrees on a bike felt like a step down from Mount Everest. My sister was leading the pack from the front and I was carrying the caboose. As I watched her start to round the corner, I saw her hit a big newspaper box at the end of a driveway and somersault over the top of it. She looked as limp as a rag-doll. Twenty two years later, I can still see it. And it happens in slow-motion.

 

I panicked. I was already coming down fast. So as I turned the corner, I pressed both brakes on my handlebars, bringing my bike to an immediate halt. Immediately. As in, it stopped right in the middle of the road, sending me sailing over the top of my bike and into the street.

 

I remember crawling over to my big sister, who was unconscious just a few feet away from me. One of our friends rode back to our house to get help while everyone else was crowded around my sister. Those few seconds felt like hours. Was she still breathing? Would she be alright? We all saw her flip over that box. And we were all scared to death.

 

One of the neighbors came out of her house when she heard the commotion and tried to ask my sister questions. She regained consciousness, but still hadn't the foggiest idea what had happened. She had no idea how she had gotten there.

 

I scraped my left wrist, but hadn't realized the extent of my injuries until my mom came and picked us up a few minutes later. It felt more comfortable for me to support my left arm with my opposite hand. All of our attention was on my sister. She would need a scan to be sure she was alright, to be sure she didn't have any internal bleeding. I was afraid my parents - who were always hesitant to let us go for rides without them - would ban us from ever leaving the house again. Maybe we were going down the hill too fast. Perhaps we were being negligent. I was silent as we drove to the hospital, except for the parts where I tried to remind my sister of exactly what had happened. After several times, I started to doubt it myself.

 

My sister's diagnosis: a concussion. She would be fine. Thankfully. It could have been so much worse. Me, on the other hand? I had a broken arm. I would need my arm set back in place (which was probably more painful than the initial break) and then heal for a few weeks with a cast up to my elbow, just three days into the summer. Bummer.

 

As the summer progressed, people would often ask me what had happened. How did I break my arm? How long would I be unable to get it wet? Could they sign it? But no one even knew that my sister had been part of that same bike accident until I told them the story. It wasn't that her injury was less serious than mine - on the contrary - it was just that her wound was invisible. Mine was highlighted by an obnoxious cast that even got strangers' attention. That's why I was the recipient of so much more initial sympathy.

 

She had an invisible wound.

 

I've thought about that story quite a bit over the past few days as we continue to grieve our son's death. I've often heard it said that losing a child is a lot like having an invisible wound. No one can tell by just looking at you, the amount of pain that you have - and continue - to suffer. No one can sense the amount of time you have spent crying over your loss, questioning why God didn't choose to heal Him, and yet praising Him for the wonderful time He had allowed us to have with such a wonderful little boy. It's an invisible wound, much like my sister's from our accident.

 

I can think of several people in my community that have lost loved ones in the past few years. Tragic circumstances. The kind that just makes your heart sink. A baby who drowned in a backyard pool. A little boy who was hit by a car in his driveway. An otherwise healthy teenager with an undetected blood clot in his lung. All of these precious children died, leaving behind a hurting family, grieving under some of the most tragic circumstances you could imagine. Years later, they still hurt. They still grieve their loss.

 

But if you put each of those mothers in a line-up amongst other women, you would never be able to determine who was who. Because there is nothing physical on them that demonstrates their loss. Because they chose to go on, to wear a smile even when they would be justified to stay home and cry every day. Because they chose to continue to find good in the everyday. To find ways to celebrate their children's lives, taken too soon. For themselves, for their families, for the loved ones they will see again in heaven.

 

They, like me, wear an invisible wound. It may not be visible to the naked eye, but given the opportunity, they can share the depth of their wounds and show evidence of their scars. And even in the midst of their own pain, they can give comfort to others.

 

Mine is an invisible wound. But given the vast number of people that had followed Ben's story, that had been touched by those long eye lashes and dimples of our Benjamin David, I don't feel like it's entirely invisible.

 

I run into so many people every day who had fallen in love with Ben. When I'm getting bloodwork, at the playground, in the bathroom at Walmart. And each time, women want me to know what a difference Ben's story had made in their lives. That his life was not in vain. Initially, they may apologize for making me upset. For reminding me of my loss. For reminding me of my pain. But honestly, I can't thank them enough.

 

I feel fortunate to have such a great community of people who are willing to surround us during this time. To acknowledge my invisible wound. To acknowledge the events of the past few months and not dismiss his life as if he never existed. Because that would be even more painful. Having so many people around me has helped with my healing. It helps comfort me in times when I feel sad. When I get discouraged at the possibility of finding joy again. When I worry that I will never be able to look at pictures with him in them without bursting out in tears. Because those people are reminding me that my invisible wound is real. That it hurts. But that it will be okay.

 

Broken bones heal. People recover from concussions. The invisible wounds sustained by a loved one's death, however, will always be present. But thankfully, the memories can never be erased.

When my dad signed my cast, all he wrote was "Romans 8:28." As a ten-year-old, it seemed kinda funny for a guy that I would have expected to draw a silly picture of himself or write something witty. Something to make me smile. But I probably wouldn't have remembered that if he had. Instead, I committed that verse to memory:

"And we know that in all things God works for the good of those who love him, who have been called according to his purpose."

And more than twenty years later, I am still finding that to be true.