ODE TO … WHY IT ALL HAPPENED

​MORTALITY DISCLAIMER: Before you read what's ahead please know that I do not put any more “weight” or degree of sadness on anyone’s loss over another. I steered clear of mentioning children because to me, as great as my losses have been in my life, those who have suffered THAT particular loss need their own forum. From what I understand from those who have walked that path, comfort comes in waves that never really reach the shore, and I respect that, and pray to God every day to watch over my blessings, and those families who have treaded in unimaginable waters.
 
Every January and February, this eerie, peaceless, Tower of Terror drop feeling comes over me. To say it’s just winter doldrums is a little dramatic. It’s a spin-off of the feelings I had when my parents died … eight years apart, but the time of year mirrored each other. It’s been 22 years since my mother passed, and 15 since my dad died. Each is the equivalent of one of my births, first Devin (1995) and Valentina (2002), each born around the time of my parents’ deaths, cementing in my soul that God gives you joy even when there is grief. He gave me two new babies at a time when I needed them. But, the wounds are still healing. 
 
A good friend recently found herself in the once unthinkable position of caring for aging, ailing father whose health and time are extremely compromised. I’ve been there, twice, and lost both parents by the time I was 35.  And, not to be callous to those who lost parents at a much younger juncture, like my brilliant childhood friend who is now a star pediatrician, who lost her mother, my mother’s best friend, when he was 17.    
 
I find myself wallowing in anger for the last twenty-two years since I lost my mother. That extended into my father’s death, and I’ve been admittedly hateful at those now and in the years before who have parents. I really have no use for aging parent stories, having lost my mother at 61, and my father, oddly enough did slightly better even with Marlboro lungs at 76. I really could care less to hear, see, or know anything about how your parents interact with your kids, how they pick them up at school, buy them Christmas gifts and attend basketball games and concerts. I had none of that. My father was able for a short while, but even then, he was dead in the box by the time my oldest was six.
 
I tried to be compassionate and understanding towards those who did enjoy the hugs and love of their parents even as adults, and I asked God to show mercy on me and give me the gusto and fervor I needed to be understanding and smile at the grandparent and kid stories, or, the restraint not to proverbially punch the shit out of someone when they complained about their parent because they had too many ailments or didn’t know when to shut up.

But, this past week, God came to me and tapped me on the shoulder, twice.  I realized that my job was outlined 22 years ago, and that was to help others get through grief. Grief is not only born through death, it is born though watching a loved one fail and dissolve into something unimaginable. My experience would be cultivated over 20 plus years of being pissed off at the world, but here is what I learned:
 

1. Not everyone has the same experience with life, or death. Not everyone experiences grief and emotion the same. Allow those who are grieving to go through their grief personally and not try to bombard them with physical help all the time. Sometimes all someone needs is, a “Hey, I’m here, please direct me.” And, in time, they will. I noticed that most of those who offered help when my parents and brother passed away disappeared as quickly as Draino once the clog was gone. It’s those who know how to appeal to the emotion and space of the loved one who probably have the most staying power. Let the griever call the shots.
   
2. When my mother was dying, big guy, Mr. Italy, (and I say this lovingly), could not go into my mother’s room in her last days, although in the end he did better than I did because he was there when she died. He said to me, I can’t do it. He even told me to stop visiting her every day because the emotions were too much, and you know what, he wasn’t insensitive, he was right. It’s ok, as the loved one, or caregiver to say, “Shit, I can’t go into that ICU unit and smell that hospital smell for one more minute, OR, I just can’t look at mom like that.” It’s ok. Caregivers get the short end of the stick all the time. Most of the time the patient is on heavy meds or so unconscious they are comfortably numb, and usually have no sense of time or space.     You do. The patient will have no idea you stepped out, or didn’t show. We need that comfort for ourselves … the physical, the sight, the smell. But, it’s ok to take a breather.
   
3. ​The totality of your life together will not be summed up by a sick visit.  Did you love your mother, your father, sister, child, wife for the time you were together? Did you share your lives on a consistent basis? Then, luggage no guilt. The story of your lives together is not a visit by visit play by play.   It is the totality of the time you devoted to each other. Don’t compartmentalize this episode to be the product of your love if you can’t get to your loved one one day, or you weren’t there when the doctor came in because you were picking up your kids or you were late. It’s ok to be human, because you are. Don’t look back and say “I wish I had…” Say, “I’m so glad I did.”
   
4. Grieve, grieve, grieve. “A time to be born, a time to die … a time to mourn, a time to dance…” Grieving is human. It’s ok to grieve illness before death. It’s all about change. We are grieving change and the lack of the physical attachment. You can f’ing cry, get pissed, and lean on your closest support team. You can say you “F’ing a-hole” at the guy who cut you off on the Parkway, but you can’t get mad because you are losing an ailing parent?  F that! Let it rip … maybe privately, maybe not. As Christina Perri says “I’m only human … and I bleed when I fall down.” Grieving is bleeding, and we need it, oddly enough, to heal.  
   
5. You have to keep it real. Whether it’s you or someone else, whoever is going through the unthinkable needs to know it’s ok to say this totally sucks, and whatever thoughts they have about now, or the future are all ok. Not that it’s a mistake to say, “Your mom is an angel,” (Mine is), or “Your dad will always watch out for you,” but try not to poo-poo their reality, as skewed as it may seem, or your thoughts as crazy as they are. It’s all your psyche trying to cope with trauma. Say whatever you want, feel whatever you want, and respect your right or the griever’s right to have unorganized thoughts.

So, twenty-two years ago I was chosen. I was chosen to go before others though I didn’t know it at the time, to understand, and be understanding and to teach others that it was ok to love and to hurt, for without that hurt, there would have been no love. The hurt and passion we feel from loss means we loved deeply, and that is the gift we receive from grief. 

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