How's That Charlie Brown?

The dictionary defines grief as keen mental suffering or distress over affliction or loss; sharp sorrow; painful regret.

For 2 days, friends, colleagues and cousins have asked me if I am okay. For a spell, I wondered “Why?” What is the rationale or reason for asking? Is there any reason why I should not be? Is it not all water under the whatever now? After all, it has been years and it’s not as if I do not still know how to love or be happy. So why? Why should I not be alright? Why do I need to grieve? WHAT IS THERE to grieve about?

There are five stages of grief. They look different on all of us, but there are always five.

Ben told me to keep the head’s up – that all this sudden rush of mention would find a way to duck me when I least expect it. I silently laughed at his text. And coolly told him that I was only going to go say my peace, for the last time and then be done with it.

Grief may be a thing we all have in common, but it looks different on everyone.

But because he is my Jiminy Cricket, and because he has been in his way, preparing me to accept death as part and parcel of life and living, he also saw all the demons I have been keeping at bay, toying with them in lil bits and then saying I’m done.

Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.

In many ways, my mourning started years ago. And if this finality is anything to go by, it sees me moving into the last of it. A calm acceptance of how things had turned out, that I had given it my all, have been giving it my all. Perhaps I could have done a little bit more but there’s nothing I can do about it now. And all said and done, we’ve done well for ourselves in the end, in our own way.

But what I did wrong was imprint onto my children that they too should feel and think the same way I do. I did the whole gung-ho thing on their behalf when Ben said it was sad, to think that Lydia and Luke now shared the category of having lost a parent, by telling Ben they never had him anyways.

It isn’t just death we have to grieve. It’s life. It’s loss. It’s change.

I should have seen it coming when Luke, age 6, solemnly told me that my analogy of his father-and-son relationship is akin to Darth Vader and Luke Skywalker (complete with the ‘Luke I am your father’ saying) WAS NOT FUNNY AT ALL. I guess in a way I did, as did my brother who was in the vicinity. But I brushed it off as Luke having one of his moments and not understanding or appreciating Star Wars.

Lydia had her complete meltdown at night prayers, with her legendary heart-wrenching sobs with a smeared howl of “I can never say goodbye to him anymore.” And of asking if she could see him one last time.

My brave lil soldiers kept it all in, in my presence until their little hearts could hold it no more.

The very worst part is that the minute you think you're past it, it starts all over again. And always, every time, it takes your breath away.

Sitting down in my folks’ front porch this evening, they wanted to know everything. What does he look like now? Who is there at his memorial? What is he wearing? Did I take a photo of him in the coffin? Why did his heart stop beating? Why did he go away? And... Did he love them?

Grief comes in its own time for everyone, in its own way. So the best we can do, the best anyone can do, is try for honesty. 

I did not want these two youngsters to think they were not loved, or they were at fault. And so I forced myself to remember all the good times, all the good things. But they were slow in coming, because I didn’t want them to. Cos to remember the good times would only bring me to my feet and wept for a life past.

The really crappy thing, the very worst part of grief is that you can't control it. The best we can do is try to let ourselves feel it when it comes. And let it go when we can.

But I know that whatever I said this evening will come back again and again ~ kids being kids, what they do not understand or comprehend, they do not retain. And so I had to do it. I had to dig out everything from the box double, triple sealed and go through everything that was once life as I knew it.

And when we wonder why it has to suck so much sometimes, has to hurt so bad. The thing we gotta try to remember is that it can turn on a dime. That's how you stay alive.

So yes, I am grieving tonight.

Grieving for a life lost not quite so old.

Grieving how he will never see any of his children step up to receive their scroll, don a white dress and veil, giving him their hand to walk down the aisle, stand at the altar beaming as his would-be daughter-in-law come up to them.

Grieving how Lydia and Luke would never have the chance to say “You are my father and I am your son, daughter.”

Grieving for how I would never be able to say again “You can see them if you wanted to.”

When it hurts so much you can't breathe, that's how you survive.

I can smile now. Not a false bravado smile. I can live with the far-fetch thought that if Lydia wanted to put one of the framed pictures out by her bedside, I would not avoid going into her room.

By remembering that one day, somehow, impossibly, you won't feel this way.

I have been here before. And I came out of it.

It won't hurt this much.

The three of us will be alright.