Permission To Grieve

Even though it is almost years since my Dad passed I still dream about him.  Last night I dreamed he was alive and we were together.

 When I woke up, I had a choice.  I could choose to feel the loss and sadness or I could choose to treasure the moment we spent together in my dream…whether it was real or not.

The choice isn’t an easy one because my head gets in the way.  It’s just a dream.  It’s only a dream.

Then my heart took over.  Who cares what state of awake or not awake I was in.  I had precious time with my Dad.

Just before closing my suitcase I went into the top drawer of my dresser and took out the cream scarf with green flowers.  That was the scarf I gave to Mom in 1994 when she was in ICU after heart surgery.

 She was in between fighting for life and giving up and as soon as she became conscious, I showed her the beautiful scarf.  She liked it so much and I taunted her, saying you can only have this if you get well and come home.

 She wore that scarf on special occasions for the next nine years until she died.  I’ve kept the scarf in my drawer, and on my special occasions when I deeply missed her I would wear the scarf.

It still smelled of her perfume after all these years because i couldn’t bear to clean it. 

I arrived in Paris three days ago, and yesterday, I knew it was time.  I took the scarf out of it’s wrapping and walked six blocks to the finest cleaners in Paris and said I needed the scarf cleaned.

The man behind the counter wore a blue suit with a crisply pressed white shirt and a blue striped tie.  I told him it was tres fragile.  That it had been my Mom’s and I couldn’t let go of it until now…but it was time.  I asked him to give it special care because it was ma mere’s.

He looked at me and his face changed from formal to warmth.  Creases appeared in his forehead and he said, I understand.  I will treat it with care.

Loving and losing a parent translates across all languages and cultures.

Last night I went to a close friend’s wedding.  There was a brief moment of acknowledgement for those who could not attend either because they were ill or not in this life anymore. 

I know my friend felt it because she wanted her Grandmother to be there, and missed her presence.  I don’t think her grandfather was there because I think he’s ill. 

 It’s a fitting thing to do…to remember and acknowledge. 

But, I couldn’t help but think about whether or not we grade our losses.  Which ones are worse because they were sudden, unexpected, or tragic. 

I confess that I do.  I am not proud of it because I believe all losses hurt equally, and yet, perhaps it is a bit of my envy seeping through when the loss is a “part of life” loss and the closest family members are still around.

Oh hell, I’ll just say it.  Two years ago I went to my cousin’s wedding and they mentioned by name all of the family members who died recently.  There were a lot.  My Mom and two uncles had died within a three month period.  I sat there angry that my cousin had her sister with her.  My sister had died and would never be with me again.  She had her parents on either side of her and I wept that I would never have my parents standing beside me, other than in spirit.  I

Last night, I was not jealous or envious or angry.  My happiness for my friend surpassed my pain.  I was able to focus on their joy rather than my loss.

As a matter of fact, suprisingly, I didn’t feel my loss so deeply.  Instead, I was counting.  Maybe measuring and rating but underneath it, counting.  Who lost how many people.  It was more an observation than an obsession.

It was kind of like what i do when I am in a long boring meeting at work.  I look around the room and I count.  How many men, how many women.  How many are married, how many are single.  How many are of a certain nationality.  How many look interested.  It just keeps me from going stir crazy.

Last night was truly wonderful.  My friend married the man who makes her happy, she is pregnant with twins and overjoyed, and had her large family, extended family, and dear friends with her.

It was so important for me to be there and share her happiness.  It was a big change in me.  I was able to fully and thoroughly share her joy.

My parents were elderly but not ill and I went to visit them in
Miami.  One night, Dad and I went to the beach.  We walked on the boardwalk slurping ice cream and looking at the moon shining on the water.  I was upset about my divorce and near tears.  Dad put his arm around me and smiled.  He said, the second half of your life will make up for the first half.  The next morning he suddenly and unexpectedly died.  Those words felt prophetic.  When I remember him saying those words I feel like I am being embraced

Please tell us your story.  We are interested.  Hearing your story can inspire someone else to tell theirs. 

Write as much as you want and come back as often as you like.

1. I am here for you

1. I can listen to you

1. Do you want a hug

1. I love you

It’s easy to love the same old people.  But, after losing a loved one, it is hard to love someone new.  It seems that my heart needed a protective cover around it and anyone new was suspicious.  Perhaps they would hurt me, although it seems silly doesn’t it?  After watching someone I love die and feeling that pain, it seems absurd that someone I barely know could possibly hurt me. 

But, it scared me.  My heart was fragile…for a long time.  And it developed agoraphobia…it liked familiar people.  But, to really be alive again meant that I needed to step outside of my comfort zone and risk my heart. 

The biggest leap I have taken is to open my heart and risk love again, knowing that even if my heart hurts again, I cannot be broken. 

Grief used to take up all the space until joy appeared once again.  It confused me because I thought it was an either/or kind of thing.  I feel sad.  I am bereaved.  I am grieving.  

Yet, I am also joyful at times.  I feel pleasure.  I taste food and love the sunrise.I laugh without hesitation and sometimes I even dance down the street. 

Yet, it is not either/or at all.  They are not at war. They have achieved détente.  They coexist.

1. Get Over It – why should I get over missing my family?

2. You seem “better” now – better than what? who is to say what is better or worse?

3. I’ll be your surrogate mother or father – who asked you? no one could replace my parents, why don’t you try being my friend.

4. You’re an Adult Orphan – no, I’m not an orphan, I had parents, they just aren’t alive now.

For a long time, nothing comforted me. I felt alone and lost. My immediate family, one by one, all died. My friends and extended family pulled back from me because my grief was palpable and I wanted to keep talking about Mom and Dad and my sister. I didn’t want to shut up and change the subject-but they did.

Over time, I decided to make myself comfortable instead of others. So I talked and if the subject was changed, I stayed on it. Then, day by day and even year by year, I found a person here and there who nodded when I spoke. I found someone who needed to listen. I found someone who also needed to talk and we listened to each other.

These were not really my friends, but people that sometimes I encountered unexpectedly without knowing their names. Other times, they were people of great compassion that eventually did become an acquaintance.

What comforts me is to not hide my grief even if it makes others uneasy. My grief is not raw on a daily basis anymore but it does appear sometimes in full force. Whether it is quiet or loud, I feel safer and more grounded letting my grief have its due.

I gave up shame. I no longer care if I am triggered by seeing seeing a mother and daughter, or a family happily sharing a meal and it occasionally makes me wistful or even teary. If the tears come, I dry them. If I feel wistful I say so…even if it is just to myself.

My comfort has come from being comfortable missing my loved ones and knowing that will never change. I can still live my life joyfully while I deeply miss their presence.