I saw a Robin Red Breast today hopping and flying around the garden. I paused, stared at his antics for a few minutes and then cried my eyes out. This was my father’s favourite bird.
It’s been 30 years since my father passed away and yet I still cry. Grief has no shelf life. I wish it would get stale or even be placed in that bargain shelf that shoppers gather around to troll through and facilitate in an outdated product’s removal. Like milk or meat that is about to go off, it can become putrid quickly.
However, there is no one facilitating the removal of the pain of loss from my shelves. As the years go by, I learn to live with my father’s absence, but I keep it real simply because my dad would not approve of my inability to stop my grief from growing putrid.
I think that this is the most difficult aspect of grief. The absence. You can get used to the person’s removal from your life with anger that evolves into a dull acceptance. But you never really get your head around that person’s non-existence. Their life energy suddenly becoming inaccessible and missing is unimaginable before it occurs. Sometimes it may or may not even matter the level of closeness you shared with a parent, it’s just the fact that they were such a part of the background of who you were – good, bad, or indifferent. A building block that is part of the puzzle of you.
But when the parent was witty, wise, funny, kind, and warm as was my father, the loss is significant. The absence inescapable.
Let me tell you briefly what my dad was like. We began with his love of birds. He was an animal lover and watched wildlife documentaries with relish. He particularly loved horses (yes, he would place a bet or two and enjoyed horseracing) as well as birds. When I was living in New York and in a terrible bind because my daughter hated her child minder, I turned to my retired dad for help. He quietly agreed to spend days babysitting his five-year-old granddaughter without fanfare or huge discussion.
Her memory of her grandfather is sitting and watching wildlife documentaries with him as they laughed and talked about the wonder of animals. I am unclear about how they filled their days together, but there was a harmonious accord whenever I picked her up. It was an inconvenience and long commute to Long Island from Manhattan, but each evening as I collected her, my conviction that it was worth it was unshaken.
My mother was also present and helped by doing what she did best – cooking. Many times, my daughter’s favourites were served up without fuss, even though my mother had worked a night shift at the nursing home and driven almost an hour to arrive home.
While our loved ones leave behind such deep impressions of who they were, whether these relationships fill our hearts with joy or dread, we are still the ones left behind. However we deal with the pain of loss, we are reminded that it is a loss with which we must carry. The trick is to carry this sadness eloquently and with reverence that is appropriate to commemorate or discount their memory. Commemorate if their presence in our lives sponsors the strength and positive aspects of our characters. To discount if this is not the case.
Therein lies the worse part of your journey in grief. Does your life story with you lost friend, sibling, parent, or loved one sponsor positive life learning, or does their impact on your life still represent a critical voice or negativity in your life?
Understanding these complex features of your connection can lessen the weight of the loss.
As for myself, I’ve had 30 years to digest and understand only half of the life lessons my dad bequeathed me. I’ll share one important one with you, “Accept people for who they are, and help when you can. Without fuss or expectation.”
