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A week ago I went to a memorial service for a man who was like a brother to me. Over time, we hadn’t seen a lot of one another, and I do not know his children. It’s a peculiar feeling, meeting the children—arguably among the most dear relations we have—at services for their father. I am glad for the time we spent, connections forged and re-forged with many friends and extended family. I hope we stay in touch.
I was prepared, I thought, for this grief. My friend had been very ill, and had fought valiantly, but it was expected.
What I was not prepared for was the resurgence of grief for those in my life who have passed recently, the most intense, of course, my own father. A lot of pain and emotional stuff came up after I learned of my friend’s death, and I found myself sobbing for my father much the way I had when his loss was fresh.
I wonder when I will stop noticing the “anniversaries?” When a time will come, for instance, when on the 13th of a month I don’t think immediately of how long it’s been?
My mother has been sorting and cleaning out the house. Everyone should do those things at their own timing, and while I appreciate those who express concern that it’s too soon—they should know that she had been doing this, to a limited extent, for years. It’s not so much a “getting rid of Dad’s stuff” as it is a general hoeing-out of stuff she doesn’t need at this stage in her life.
Also, giving away Dad’s stuff to those who will cherish it is a way for her to celebrate him.
I have no problem with this—but yesterday when she gave me a basket of small items and told me there was an envelope in it, to not open until I was home…I was picturing an envelope, you know? White paper? No, it was a tiny ziplock bag like my folks used for so many things, and inside was a tiny note I had written to my Daddy when I was a small child.
I unfolded it carefully and read it, and howled. I stood in my kitchen and howled. Is it weird that I say that my grief feels right, feels almost joyful in its sorrow? That I am so glad there are still these tiny testaments to our lives together—to the love which remains.
And I am very, very grateful for these positive memories, as there are a lot of the other kind. Dad wasn’t an easy man—and his last few years were characterized more by his fierce fight against age and infirmity, and his anger at everything and everyone because of it. The last year, in particular, was hard—but I had several years of difficulty as I drove him to appointments (against his will) and did other things to help.
Also, for some reason (with no blame attached for anyone) I struggle mightily with his end. We did the absolute best we could—and once he was in hospice, one of the family was with him every minute until his end, even though it was an hour and a half’s drive from his home. There was just no “fixing” or “helping” what had to be—but I still grieve it, and feel guilty that I was unable to do more.
And I miss him.
Others I have lost recently (and some who have been gone far longer) have come back to mind more strongly, and their own grief resurges. My “Aunt” Joan—my hero—only six months. My father-in-law, nearly 30 years.
I understand intellectually that grief will always be present. But my heart didn’t know. I lived over 30 years of my life with no major losses (I had all my grandparents into my 40s!) I was so very blessed—but that also meant I had never understood grief. The last 30 years, since the “loss” of my son to autism and the grief which accompanied that, have been full of loss and a sense of time slipping from my hands.
I feel like no matter what I do, it will never be enough. I will always want more. And that’s normal, but it hurts. The loss of a parent is somehow more intense than those others. The disability which took the child I had and gave me one who is vastly different cannot be compared to those who lose a child to death, of course. But the things which affect your child are the worst in life. The loss of a parent is different.
I’m facing that I’m now pretty much the oldest generation. My mother still lives, of course, and will for a long time—but she feels like the remnant of her people. Most of them are gone. She is seven years younger than Dad, and we can hope for many years with her. But Dad’s peers are nearly all gone.
I didn’t have this feeling with my grandparents, who were dear to me and very close. I think it’s because they lived so long—the youngest died at 84, but had had a stroke. (I separate “natural” deaths from illness deaths in my mind.) The next was 88, and had had major health issues all his life, but was still hearty and vital, walking 3 miles every morning at age 87, briskly—at the end of his life he could still outwalk me. Despite the heart problems, the diabetes, major spinal surgeries, and other things, it was cancer which took him. We never expected that.
Dad’s parents lived to be nearly 100, and 100 + two months.
The idea that Dad would only make it to 90 still astonishes me. We could see it happening (although I visited the Land of Denial a LOT) and knew he’d not make it that last decade. But when he started going downhill, it was relatively fast. He was (in spite of all common sense) still hand-splitting wood in early May. A week later, he stood up from breakfast, and fell over, breaking his femur. The next seven months were a hard fight against the inevitable, and it still happened too fast.
I miss you, Daddy. I always will. I’m sorry for the times I was not as good a daughter, and a person, as I could have been. The times when my “best” was significantly less than at other times. I’m sorry for the times when your “best” wasn’t as much as I needed.
But I’m grateful to have had you, and the love you gave us all.
And as the note said, God is great, and so are you. I don’t know what I would do without you.
But I’m learning.
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