Monday, March 6, 2017

Grief 101

I am by no means an expert on this subject.  Fortunately, I had only two deaths in my life that were meaningful before my dad's departure last month.  One of those was my grandfather, who died when I was 5 years old and frankly I was was not exceedingly mature and the impact on me at that time was therefore not very profound.:)  The second was a man that I didn't meet until he was well into his eighties and I was honestly just thankful that I had the chances to learn from him that I did.  I also haven't had a life worthy of many other huge griefs.

Therefore, I am not writing this because I think anyone will learn or even needs to learn from my writing.  I am writing this because I realize just how poor of a friend I have been to those who are friends of mine, who lost someone.  I am writing because I never knew what to say to people when they were grieved by things that just didn't affect me very much.  Finally, I am writing because I am hopeful that it will be cathartic for me to put words to the page.

The first thing that has surprised me is that recovering from grief is not linear. In fact, it often is all over the place.  Much like many things in life, there are good days and there are bad ones.  I've made it through an entire day where my life almost seems normal.  However, that does not mean the next day will be more of the same.  I do believe that as time continues to march on and I build more memories with the people I have left, the impact won't encompass as much as it does.  But I learned from my father and the aforementioned death of his father that that pain never truly leaves and there will probably be days when my son becomes an adult that just make me sad thinking about how much I want my dad.

Sometimes being busy takes your mind off of the situation, but there have been a few times in just the short time I've had, where my busy-ness makes me think I need to tell my dad something or reminds me of a time we were working together.  As I pick up my phone, I realize that he won't be on the other end of that call.  I find myself suffering from intense malaise.  I have been so much less productive with my life, and it isn't that my dad is needed for me to do the simple things (like pay my bills), but rather that I just can't seem to be as excited about life in general.

I can only imagine how difficult it would be if I didn't have faith in God or the knowledge that my dad was with him.  Even that knowledge does not take away the reality that my life is forever changed.  While that knowledge makes me very happy for him, it still leaves me missing him.  Finally, I don't need the comfort of hearing where he is.  I imagine this is even more true for the atheist.  What we want, I believe, is someone to empathize with what we are feeling, not to tell us what he is feeling.

By the way, we all love hearing that people are willing to help, but I think a more appropriate statement would be identifying a precise way that you can help.  For example, I'll bring you dinner on Tuesday or we'll watch your kids one night or let me run an errand for you or this is how we can meet and reminisce about your dad.  No one in grief is likely to make a Rolodex of all the people willing to help and call them as the needs come in.  In fact, the needs are normally unknown.  I mean someone had to remind me to eat the other day.  Me!

Overall, the biggest thing is that I am not necessarily doing better today, just because my father's death is one day further away.  Today might be the first time I heard a song he liked in church or the 20th time I get into the car that used to be his or the first time I saw his favorite team play or the 800th time I run across something at work that he would be a great sounding board for.  The reality is that for 40 years of life, my dad was my confidant, my fan, my mentor, my accountability partner, my fellow cheerleader for our teams, my friend, and my father.

Life just won't ever be the same, and no matter where I know he is, I selfishly want him here.  I want him to see his grand-kids continue to grow (hopefully in the nurture and admonition of the Lord), and then see my grand-children do the same.  I want him to give me advice and be there for my mother, my sister, and me.  But most of all, I just want to see him.  And while I do not grieve as those who have no hope, I'm sure I'll continue to cry for me.  And I'm not sure that will be any different, even if I live another 40 years.

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