My New Friend, Grief

Wondering I am standing at a podium in front of the room. We are at my dad’s memorial service. My hand shakes as I open the small journal where I had written my thoughts about what to say. My dad’s voice says, “Anna, your hand is shaking! Did you eat breakfast?” I smile, appreciating that he notices the little things like my shaky hands and cares enough about me to inquire whether I had breakfast. The voice is, of course, in my head. I stop smiling. The eyes meeting mine are sad ones. Some of the eyes have been watching me my entire life. Some I have known since I was a child, some I met in college, and there are some I had never seen before. I hadn’t planned to say anything at all. I had imagined myself sitting there, nestled into one of the comfy sofas with my back turned to the people who came to say good-bye to my dad. My shoulders would be trembling, draped in Dan’s strong arm. That is how I pictured it. Instead I stand at the front of the room facing all those eyes I want to avoid. I say: Thank you for being here to celebrate my dad’s life. None of us was prepared for this loss. Especially my dad. There were many things he still looked forward to doing. And there were many, many things I looked forward to sharing with him, and especially with him and my children. I cannot wrap my head around the reality that they will never find comfort in their Papaw’s arms again. In times like this my dad is a great source of comfort, wisdom, and strength. So, I am wondering, what would he say to me now? What would he say to all of us today? Would he say, “Yeahhh, man. I died too soon. I left an unfinished life.”? Honestly, he would probably say, “Anna, life is not about finishing; life is about the process.” Because that is how he lived his life, he relished in the process. He trusted in the process. And because of that, because of his quest to learn, to share, and to create, because we have his music, his art, and our memories to sustain us, we find ourselves not only lost without him, but also, always with him. We are surrounded by his love, his grace, his strength, his beauty, and his wisdom. All of his love, the love he gave so freely, is reflected in your eyes. For all of this, for his full, rich life, for my Dad, I am grateful. Thank you. I hear laughs when I impersonate him with my “Yeah, man…” I cry through the entire thing and my knees are shaking along with my hands, but I make it through to the end of what I had written. In the days after my dad’s death we are surrounded by love. We receive flowers, plants, phone calls, cards, e-mail messages, and text messages. None of it is expected. How could it be? We don’t know what to expect. This is a new road on our journey. We took an unexpected turn. And, much to our surprise, our primary guide is no longer with us. We wait for him to walk through the door. We want him back so desperately. We saw his body taken away and we know he isn’t coming back, but we don’t stop hoping. We have watched too many soap operas. People always come back from the dead in soap operas. The line between what is real and what we imagine begins to blur. It is all a dream. Yes. No? We can’t really be sure. We appreciate all the love whizzing and whirring around us. We feel blessed. We light up upon seeing people we haven’t seen in so many years, and then we remember why we are seeing them. Could it be true? Has there been some sort of cosmic mistake? We hope so. We continue to greet our loved ones and the ones whom loved my dad with half smiles. We nod to acknowledge those we can’t talk to right away. I repeat the words from the script I pieced together for the occasion: No, he wasn’t sick. Yes, it was all of a sudden. My mom found him. Dinner was on the stove. He didn’t come in when he was supposed to. Yes, it was awful. She is okay. I mean, she will be okay. She is strong. Yes, James was devastated. Yes, they were very close. It was an aortic dissection. His heart broke. Literally. It’s good to see you too… I mean, well – yeah… I force my mouth to form a smile, but it is still hard to look people in the eyes. I hear my dad’s voice whispering, “Eye contact, Anna.” But making eye contact means seeing and being seen. I try to avoid it. My head is nodding while my heart screams in disagreement with what is being said, “NO! HE IS NOT IN A BETTER PLACE. THIS IS WHERE HE IS SUPPOSED TO BE. THERE IS NO BETTER PLACE THAN RIGHT HERE. WITH US. HAVE YOU LOST YOUR FUCKING MIND? NO! IT WAS NOT HIS TIME. HE IS SIXTY FUCKING TWO. ARE YOU FUCKING CRAZY? NO, THIS IS NOT GOD’S PLAN! IT WAS AN OVERSIGHT. GOD MADE A MISTAKE! APPARENTLY THAT HAPPENS SOMETIMES!” I take notes and file them away under What Not To Say To People When Their Loved Ones Die. I am thankful for Spanx. I hate high heels. I wear them anyway to appeal to the southern gentleman my dad once was. I am a good daughter. One of my very dear friends, Tiffany, is there, sitting in the chairs or talking to people for every bit of the Visitation and memorial service. When I asked her about it later, she said, “I just wanted to be there. In case you needed me.” Another friend, Angi, hands me a peppermint patty when I see her. It is the sweetest, simplest gesture. She said, “I thought you might be hungry.” The music we prepared is playing on the sound system. One of my dad’s songs, Nothin’ But Love, is the theme song. Even in the midst of well intentioned but ill-received platitudes, we are experiencing love in ways I never imagined. The love is thick in the air, it covers us like a blanket – protecting us and warming us. We are somewhat invincible cloaked in this love. We can handle anything. The lyrics of the song are as follows: If you’ve never had the blues, you’ve got some blues coming, If you’ve never had the blues, you’ve got some blues coming, You might not be singing ‘em, but you’ll be hummin’ em… Ain’t nothin’ but love, can take your blues away, ain’t nothin’ but love can take your blues away, you might not live to see tomorrow, better make some love today… You’ve got some blues coming, you know it will be hard… You’ve got some blues coming, you know it will be hard… It don’t matter where you live people, the blues’ll come in your backyard… Ain’t nothin’ but love can take your blues away, ain’t nothin but love can take your blues away, you might not live to see tomorrow, better make some love today. While I take comfort in his lyrics, I wonder - how did my dad know we had some blues coming? How is it that he wrote this song, and then died in his own backyard? What other blues do we have coming? I think about the last recording my dad made. Every time I saw him after he gave it to me, he asked if I had listened to it yet. I said no. I didn’t listen to it until after his death. I would give anything to go back and listen to it while he was alive. I would give anything to see his face when I tell him how much I love it – how much I love hearing him sing the blues. I relish in the love that surrounds us and trust in my dad’s reassurance that nothing but love can take my blues away. I am relieved that there is something potent enough to take my blues away. A few of my closest out of town friends leave me kind voice mail messages. I don’t even listen to them until weeks after the funeral. I save those messages and listen to them when I need comfort. I would save the messages for well over a year, and then eventually I would delete them because holding on at that point would be more painful than letting go. People make meals and run errands for us. We are at the heart of a huge and kind community of people who love us and want us to be well. And then one day it is over.