My father died on August 8th, 2011 at 8'o clock in the morning in Calhoun City, Mississippi.
He'd been born almost 59 years earlier and over a thousand miles away.
He didn't invent anything.
He didn't create any world-famous form of art.
The world went on turning the way it always had with nary a sign of his leaving.
But his funeral the following Saturday, back in my hometown, just blocks from my childhood home, was packed. People came from all over the state of Michigan to bid my father farewell and wrap their arms around my family. Flowers were sent from all over the country.
I stood before my fellow mourners and, fighting back tears, chanted Psalm 46:
I held it together through the whole funeral, but at the end, the sound of my aunt crying in the pew behind me broke what remained of my resolve. I stood, turned around, and we collapsed. She'd lost her big brother. I'd lost my dad. We two probably had the closest sense of loss. My father had been many things to many people, but to us, he was both a foundation and a touchstone.
Finding a sense of a "new normal" after the loss of someone so close is possibly one of the hardest things. My father was the only family I had within a thousand miles of where I lived, because we two had been the ones who went where opportunity led us... ironically to the poorest state in the union, but we were determined to take the chance given us. I returned to work as soon as I returned to Mississippi, and within a week, started my senior year at Ole Miss. My academic adviser and favorite professor both knew about what had happened, and extended their regrets. I worked, went to school, and tried my best to hold my head up, taking great care to take care of myself. Some days were easier than others, but they weren't my biggest challenge: the nights were.
I could no longer sleep alone. If I was by myself, I'd stare at the ceiling and eventually only pass out when my body could no longer stand it. I had broken up with my boyfriend after his militant atheism hit too close to the open, bloody wound that was my heart when he attacked the existence of God and the afterlife. While, no, I don't exactly imagine heaven as clouds and infantile angels floating around playing harps, my main comfort was the notion that I was not permanently parted from my father... that one day, hopefully several decades from now, not only would I stand beside my earthly father, but also my Heavenly Father. Needless to say, while my having to sleep alone was certainly of my own making, the alternative was no real alternative.
In my search for peaceful sleep and comfort, I sought out a friend whose Catholicism and military background felt safe and familiar, but I got my heart broken by that one.
The lack of sleep, combined with the stress of trying to maintain a full course load, a job, and a cheery disposition, resulted in the inevitable break-down of my immune system. I had the flu at least three times between August and March. In between bouts of the flu, I was almost continuously suffering from a head cold. By March, I had exhausted all that was left of my emotional energy. I got put on anti-depressants. I threw out everything and everyone who was more of a stress on me than a salve... but the damage had already been done. I was so far behind. I was so off-track. I stopped thinking about graduating in May... instead, I just started thinking about making it through the week. My sleep schedule was still way off, and frankly, I still had the attention span of a small rodent, but I made it work.
I can't tell you that I ended up triumphing over my own broken heart... that I returned to being a top student or managed to graduate that spring... because I didn't. What I can tell you is that slowly, one night at a time, sleeping has gotten easier. I ended up only needing the anti-depressants for a few months. I ended up starting a relationship with a good friend of mine who has also suffered the loss of a parent (his mother) in the last year, but we're moving forward together. It's baby steps. People always talk about the simple things that can get one through grief... keep busy, let yourself cry, keep smiling... whatever it may be... they're full of shit. There is nothing simple, nothing easy, about grief. Those "simple" things end up not being very simple in practice. Every. Single. Thing. Is easier said than done. Everything... and the worst part is that, while the vast majority of people will express their condolences and offer their help should one ask, very, very few people actually do help. At the end of the day, someone who is mourning is so focused on just trying to keep her head on straight that even the act of asking for help is ridiculously hard... in large part because so much conscious thought is suddenly focused on trying to do all those supposedly simple things.
The last thing I wanted was someone telling me that if I "needed anything" to "just ask." Half the time, I didn't even know what I needed. Hell, I still don't know what I needed at every moment. One thing's for sure... I didn't need any more cards or phone calls (especially the day-of. My stupid phone would not stop ringing the whole day my dad died. I have never wanted to break something as bad as I wanted to break that phone.) or acquaintances expressing their condolences out of the blue when I was going about my day.
There's a really cool post I read on Takethemameal.com that points out that the most helpful, thoughtful things when someone's going through a crisis often aren't traditional things like flowers or a card. Meals definitely are a help, but not so much during the immediate crisis. Trust me, Mom and I ate well the week of the funeral, but in the weeks and months after, when it felt like everybody in the world except me had gotten back to normal, I can't tell you how much money I ended up spending at my local Huddle House, first because I just did not have the energy to cook and the foresight to plan meals, and second because it was an easy way to get people to eat with me. Seriously, take someone who is mourning out for lunch. Send them a gift card to a local restaurant.
It took me forever to write out and send out all of the thank you notes after the funeral (I think they ended up going out alongside my Christmas cards, to be honest) not just because going through and writing an individual note was time-consuming, but because it was an emotionally exhausting process. Then I had to remember to actually take them and drop them in a mailbox. (I may have mentioned my lack of sleep and attention span of a small rodent?) It would definitely have been a big help if somebody had offered to stamp my thank you notes and drop them off.
Seriously, I could list things off forever. I know the vast majority of people meant well. I know that they would have been happy to help me out if I'd only asked, but sometimes, it's not even so much a matter of pride keeping someone from asking as it's just a matter of not even have the mindfulness to realize that someone else really could make it easier.
If you're grieving right now, seriously, take a step back and remember: you aren't whole right now. Don't even try to pretend to be. Don't try to be all things to all people, because it doesn't work. You may end up exhausting yourself that much more. And remember, God is our refuge and our strength. I promise, He hasn't abandoned you.
He'd been born almost 59 years earlier and over a thousand miles away.
He didn't invent anything.
He didn't create any world-famous form of art.
The world went on turning the way it always had with nary a sign of his leaving.
But his funeral the following Saturday, back in my hometown, just blocks from my childhood home, was packed. People came from all over the state of Michigan to bid my father farewell and wrap their arms around my family. Flowers were sent from all over the country.
I stood before my fellow mourners and, fighting back tears, chanted Psalm 46:
My mountains were quaking. My earth was giving way. But I stood before fallen faces and tried to be to them what my father had been to me: strong, faithful, peaceful.1 God is our refuge and strength,
an ever-present help in trouble.
2 Therefore we will not fear, though the earth give way
and the mountains fall into the heart of the sea,
3 though its waters roar and foam
and the mountains quake with their surging.[c]4 There is a river whose streams make glad the city of God,
the holy place where the Most High dwells.
5 God is within her, she will not fall;
God will help her at break of day.
6 Nations are in uproar, kingdoms fall;
he lifts his voice, the earth melts.7 The Lord Almighty is with us;
the God of Jacob is our fortress.11 The Lord Almighty is with us;8 Come and see what the Lord has done,
the desolations he has brought on the earth.
9 He makes wars cease
to the ends of the earth.
He breaks the bow and shatters the spear;
he burns the shields[d] with fire.
10 He says, “Be still, and know that I am God;
I will be exalted among the nations,
I will be exalted in the earth.”
the God of Jacob is our fortress.
I held it together through the whole funeral, but at the end, the sound of my aunt crying in the pew behind me broke what remained of my resolve. I stood, turned around, and we collapsed. She'd lost her big brother. I'd lost my dad. We two probably had the closest sense of loss. My father had been many things to many people, but to us, he was both a foundation and a touchstone.
Finding a sense of a "new normal" after the loss of someone so close is possibly one of the hardest things. My father was the only family I had within a thousand miles of where I lived, because we two had been the ones who went where opportunity led us... ironically to the poorest state in the union, but we were determined to take the chance given us. I returned to work as soon as I returned to Mississippi, and within a week, started my senior year at Ole Miss. My academic adviser and favorite professor both knew about what had happened, and extended their regrets. I worked, went to school, and tried my best to hold my head up, taking great care to take care of myself. Some days were easier than others, but they weren't my biggest challenge: the nights were.
I could no longer sleep alone. If I was by myself, I'd stare at the ceiling and eventually only pass out when my body could no longer stand it. I had broken up with my boyfriend after his militant atheism hit too close to the open, bloody wound that was my heart when he attacked the existence of God and the afterlife. While, no, I don't exactly imagine heaven as clouds and infantile angels floating around playing harps, my main comfort was the notion that I was not permanently parted from my father... that one day, hopefully several decades from now, not only would I stand beside my earthly father, but also my Heavenly Father. Needless to say, while my having to sleep alone was certainly of my own making, the alternative was no real alternative.
In my search for peaceful sleep and comfort, I sought out a friend whose Catholicism and military background felt safe and familiar, but I got my heart broken by that one.
The lack of sleep, combined with the stress of trying to maintain a full course load, a job, and a cheery disposition, resulted in the inevitable break-down of my immune system. I had the flu at least three times between August and March. In between bouts of the flu, I was almost continuously suffering from a head cold. By March, I had exhausted all that was left of my emotional energy. I got put on anti-depressants. I threw out everything and everyone who was more of a stress on me than a salve... but the damage had already been done. I was so far behind. I was so off-track. I stopped thinking about graduating in May... instead, I just started thinking about making it through the week. My sleep schedule was still way off, and frankly, I still had the attention span of a small rodent, but I made it work.
I can't tell you that I ended up triumphing over my own broken heart... that I returned to being a top student or managed to graduate that spring... because I didn't. What I can tell you is that slowly, one night at a time, sleeping has gotten easier. I ended up only needing the anti-depressants for a few months. I ended up starting a relationship with a good friend of mine who has also suffered the loss of a parent (his mother) in the last year, but we're moving forward together. It's baby steps. People always talk about the simple things that can get one through grief... keep busy, let yourself cry, keep smiling... whatever it may be... they're full of shit. There is nothing simple, nothing easy, about grief. Those "simple" things end up not being very simple in practice. Every. Single. Thing. Is easier said than done. Everything... and the worst part is that, while the vast majority of people will express their condolences and offer their help should one ask, very, very few people actually do help. At the end of the day, someone who is mourning is so focused on just trying to keep her head on straight that even the act of asking for help is ridiculously hard... in large part because so much conscious thought is suddenly focused on trying to do all those supposedly simple things.
The last thing I wanted was someone telling me that if I "needed anything" to "just ask." Half the time, I didn't even know what I needed. Hell, I still don't know what I needed at every moment. One thing's for sure... I didn't need any more cards or phone calls (especially the day-of. My stupid phone would not stop ringing the whole day my dad died. I have never wanted to break something as bad as I wanted to break that phone.) or acquaintances expressing their condolences out of the blue when I was going about my day.
There's a really cool post I read on Takethemameal.com that points out that the most helpful, thoughtful things when someone's going through a crisis often aren't traditional things like flowers or a card. Meals definitely are a help, but not so much during the immediate crisis. Trust me, Mom and I ate well the week of the funeral, but in the weeks and months after, when it felt like everybody in the world except me had gotten back to normal, I can't tell you how much money I ended up spending at my local Huddle House, first because I just did not have the energy to cook and the foresight to plan meals, and second because it was an easy way to get people to eat with me. Seriously, take someone who is mourning out for lunch. Send them a gift card to a local restaurant.
It took me forever to write out and send out all of the thank you notes after the funeral (I think they ended up going out alongside my Christmas cards, to be honest) not just because going through and writing an individual note was time-consuming, but because it was an emotionally exhausting process. Then I had to remember to actually take them and drop them in a mailbox. (I may have mentioned my lack of sleep and attention span of a small rodent?) It would definitely have been a big help if somebody had offered to stamp my thank you notes and drop them off.
Seriously, I could list things off forever. I know the vast majority of people meant well. I know that they would have been happy to help me out if I'd only asked, but sometimes, it's not even so much a matter of pride keeping someone from asking as it's just a matter of not even have the mindfulness to realize that someone else really could make it easier.
If you're grieving right now, seriously, take a step back and remember: you aren't whole right now. Don't even try to pretend to be. Don't try to be all things to all people, because it doesn't work. You may end up exhausting yourself that much more. And remember, God is our refuge and our strength. I promise, He hasn't abandoned you.
No comments:
Post a Comment