It’s been two years now. It was the worst day of my life thus far, and I hate the changes that have come about since Dad’s been gone. I always have extra pictures now when we distribute the kids’ school pictures or copies of studio portraits. Our family buys far fewer Father’s Day cards. There’s one less thing to stress over when it comes to gee-what-do-I-get-the-dads-for-Christmas—but what I wouldn’t give to still have that stress.
I don’t know how else to explain it except to say I feel broken. It’s like the place in my heart that was reserved just for Dad burst when he died. But that’s life now—and no, it’s not the same without him, and I doubt we will ever completely get used to him being gone. I still think “I need to call Dad...” way too often. He’s missed out on so many things, so many birthday parties and holiday dinners and school functions and those infamous advice-offering phone conversations he loved. Bugging me about my remodeling projects. The annual selection of his new car. He's missed a James Bond movie, and watching “Pirates” with Jack. He’s missed so many Yankees games.
He has missed out. But most of all, we have missed him.
Kathy’s and my best friends have both lost their fathers since we lost ours. Unfortunately, we have learned very little about how a daughter is supposed to survive this painful phase; in fact, two years later we still often feel like the news is brand new. I found this quote recently that gives us a tiny bit of simple hope that we are not suffering in vain (though we're still struggling to find a lesson in our grief).
“If you learn from your suffering,
and really come to understand the lessons you were taught,
you might be able to help someone else
who is now in the phase you may have just completed.
Maybe that’s what it’s all about after all.”
--Source Unknown
One of the other things Kathy and I discovered in the past two years is that everyone grieves in very different ways and often on very different timelines. More than anything, we now know that there’s no such thing as a “normal” grief process. Really, whatever we feel is “normal.” And so I close with this piece from Bereavement Magazine (that must be a joyful subscription, hm?), in the hope that it might possibly be some comfort to Lori and April over the next few anniversaries that pass for them.
When Does Grief End?
Grief hits us like a ton of bricks,
Flattens us like a steamroller,
Hurls us into the depths of despair.
We know in a flash when grief hits,
But when does it end?
Like the month of March,
Grief rushes in like a lion,
And tiptoes out like a lamb.
Sometimes, we don’t know when grief leaves,
Because we don’t let go of the lion’s tail.
Why do we hold on so long?
Grief offers us safety,
Protection from the world.
We don’t want to let go
Because we secretly fear
That we’ll forget our loved ones,
And we don’t want to forget—ever.
We don’t want to let go
Because we fear the future
And having to face life without our loved ones.
We don’t want to let go
Because we make the mistake
Of measuring our grief with the depth of our love—
When neither has anything to do with the other.
How do we know when grief has run its course?
How do we know when we’ve grieved enough?
Cried enough?
“Died” enough?
How do we know when it’s time to let go of the tail?
We know when we feel joy again, in something or someone.
Joy in living. Joy in life.
We know when we wake up in the morning
And our first thought is on something other than our loss.
We know when we look ahead with a smile
And back with fond memories,
And when we no longer dread the nights.
We know when our life starts filling up with new interests and people,
And we start reaching for the stars.
Grief ends when we let go of the tail.
--Margaret Brownley, Bereavement Magazine, Jan/Feb 2002
Kathy, I'm thinking of you a whole bunch today. And I speak for us both when I say we're thinking of you a whole bunch today, too, Lori and April.
With love,
Jen
Vic and I were reminded of our upcoming road trip to Northern California and why we probably won't want to drive the Passat, where their bickering goes directly from the back seat right into our ears. We probably won't want to drive the MPV either because even if we banish them to the back row we'd still be able to hear them. In fact, it seems that our ideal car is the one Homer Simpson designed in a Simpsons episode from 1991. It features:
