On Grief and Bad Hair and a Faded Blue Flannel Shirt
October 5, 2011
“So,” my teenage daughter suggested last night, cocking her head at me as I lay curled up on my bed, me in bad hair and baggy sweats and a burly old flannel shirt, “maybe you could, like, do something with this grief.”
The bad hair and baggy sweats were all my own, but the flannel shirt, faded blue plaid and quilted on the inside and cozy, had belonged to by dad. My dad, whose memorial service was less than forty-eight hours ago.
“Like,” she added, watching me, but also glancing away—as uneasy, I saw, as I’ve always been around grief, “you could write about it. Day by day or week by week. A new book.” She scanned my under-eye baggage and the frizz that spun out from my head like a chimney sweep’s brush, and gave me a look saying that, on the other hand, I might be beyond hope.
And then came her signature grin, the one that announces she’s decided to approach a crisis with humor. “You know, it’s been too long since the last book, and you’ve only got a couple of years to earn the big bucks so I can go wherever I want to for college.” And she snapped her fingers with a so-get-a-move-on flourish.
We laughed then, because we were both looking for a reason to laugh.
Great, I thought. A whole book of Today, soon after the funeral, I curled up in the tiled corner and sobbed in the shower. Followed by Today I wept while driving to work and nearly ran an old AMC Pacer, that unfortunate excuse for a car, clear off the road. And the next entry: Today, after going through my father’s old suits, I made it through the luncheon with the lovely arugula and goat cheese, but abandoned the peanut butter pie with the M&M sprinkles because I had to escape down the hall to be able breathe. Just breathe, and be alone. And maybe whimper a couple of times to no one but the walls.
Some book.
I didn’t expect to grieve like this, you understand.
Didn’t see it coming at all.
And, rationally, it makes little sense.
I know that.
My father was in the final stages of a terminal illness, and was suffering. He was a devout person of faith, and was approaching death with the expectation of a real going-home, to be met with love and grace and healing.
When he’d still been of sound mind, he’d made it clear he’d no desire for his body to linger on after his mind had left. Collapsing one evening last week with an intestinal obstruction, he’d arrived at the hospital with his Do Not Resuscitate order in my mother’s hand. Emergency surgery? Not an option.
So his organs gave up the fight one by one and he died, without pain.
And we gathered around his bed as he took his last, labored breaths and thanked God for his life, and for his release from suffering, and for his being welcomed to heaven.
A mercy, we said to the doctors.
A gift, our friends said to us.
Yes, we said. Yes.
And yet the grief that’s followed has startled me in its strength, its often knocking me flat.
So maybe my 16-year-old is right, as 16-year-olds sometimes—not always, please note, but sometimes—are.
Maybe I do need to do something with this grief….
So if, over the course of however many blog posts to come, I can help you laugh a little, or recall a precious, dusty old memory you’d overlooked until now, then the writing might be worthwhile.
If I can listen more closely, with more compassion, to other people’s journeys through life and through death, and learn from the wisdom they’ve gleaned along the way, then, the writing might be worthwhile.
If I can help us—you and me both—figure out how, smacked by one of those sudden waves of sorrow, you fork over the Mastercard to the sweet, bewildered Steak and Shake cashier when you really just want to snuffle into your napkin and camp out in your vinyl booth through the breakfast and lunch rush and be left alone, well, then, the writing might be worthwhile.
Whether you’re acquainted with grief yourself, or know someone who’s currently walking through that long valley, please know I’d love to have you and your insights and wisdom and stories along for the journey.
Wishing you comfort, wishing you peace….
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Connect with Joy
Funny thing about grief…it continues to show up on one’s doorstep even years after a loved one has passed from this life into the next. This week Grief comes to me again with the passing of my college piano instructor. After being diagnosed this summer with stage-four colon cancer, he was gone within a matter of months. Even as I write this my eyes well with tears for him. Is it his passing that is so raw for me or is it the remembrance of my father’s passing with colon cancer in 1992? Both men were difficult. Both men were talented and touched many lives with their gifts. Both men made an indelible mark on my life. I will attend the funeral this weekend. I’ll see old friends, remember lost relationships, make promises to keep in touch and somewhere in the midst of this rebirth, Grief will dissipate…for a time.
Having lost my grandmother, who I loved dearly, I have come to notice what I will call the grief triggers for me and my family. For my sister, it is when her husband talks about building a shelf to display the Snow Babies that Grandmomma bought for her. For my mom, it is walking through the grocery store and seeing a box of Depends … I am sure there are many more for Momma, but that one just sticks out in my mind. For me, I am having a really hard time with the music at church, contemporary or traditional. The triggers don’t always make sense, but they are there waiting to remind us to celebrate the person we have lost.
I am not sure what the trigger is for my daughter, but sometimes she just looks up at me and says, “Mommy, I miss Old Lady.”
When my Dad died a few years ago, I remember being shocked at how my grief would erupt at the oddest times–eating in McDonald’s, or riding in an elevator, or whenever. It was so strange to me, nothing in particular seemed to set it off. And I learned just to go with it. My Mom died two years ago and I still sometimes think I’ll call her to tell her something that happened. I’m not sure our minds ever completely process the deaths of our parents, it is so profound. So just be kind to yourself and hang out in the faded blue flannel shirt just as long as you need to.