On Grief

 

Mom and Dad with their third child, Dec 1968

I think about them every day.

My parents. Robert (Donald/Bob) and Nancy. 

Every day.

Dad died on St. Patrick's night, 1989. He was 59. 

Mom died five years ago today at 83. The images are seared into my brain.

I've been chasing my father's age, frankly, ever since. I want to be around for Sean, who says I have to outlive his grandmother. Dare to dream, I guess.

But it's the grief -- and how to handle it -- that has been my issue ever since.

I went through the stages, especially after Dad passed. I was resigned, angry, low-key, and aggressive. I mourned. With Mom, the reactions were different. Grief has a funny way of helping you adjust. Whether it's death or something else, we grieve different things.

It's always grief over a loss of something, but what is that something? Sure, it can be a parent, a pet, or a loved one. But it can also be a loss of innocence, trust, a relationship, or something else.

Mom's passing was more of an overall shock for me, followed by doing what I do. I put one foot in front of the other. I kept moving. 

In that shock, I spoke with 911 and the EMTs and the police, and the funeral home.

Then we planned the funeral.

Then we dealt with the aftermath of finances, the house, etc.

And there were other things, items that removed my focus from ever allowing to grieve my mother.

Some knew what the end was like. Some didn't and never will. Or they'll never understand or care to understand. But I carry all of that with me.

And, no, I don't forget.

So I honor my parents via social media posts and occasional meals, and toasts. Birthdays, anniversaries of their passing, and the wretched holidays.

What I can't do -- ever -- is stop living. I can't be that thief of joy. Neither one of them would tolerate that. If there's a post-game (aka "afterlife"), they'd both express their displeasure in that regard. I'm sure they'll have enough to say.

So I've continued to live. Sean and I travel, and we both feel the lack of Mom in the backseat every time. It was profound -- so strong -- at first. Her absence hovered over our first weekend getaway like a bad meal.

We learned. We had to. Moving forward is what we do.

More than anything, grieving for us involves humor. Some of it is dark, and I don't share it with many because you likely wouldn't understand. But we understand. It's how we survive.

Losing my father at such a young age -- for both of us -- has impacted me in ways that I'll never truly appreciate. All of the things he didn't see or experience, and all of the things I never spoke to him about, continue to gnaw at me.

I get emotional rather easily on that topic. 

With Mom, it's still almost like a shock. There are moments out of the blue when I think I should reach out. It's hard to explain. I know the reality, and yet the reality still kind of stabs me.

But I never wanted people to feel like I discussed either of them too often, or dwelled on their passing. I've written so much here over the years. Honestly, I've backed down quite a bit.

The hurt -- the loss -- is always there. Always within me. I can't stand the tears. 

But we'll continue to laugh.

We have to.

That's how we grieve.

circa 1976