A few days ago, I had the pleasure of catching up with a friend I hadn't seen in some time. Seeking to set the stage for further discussion, I casually mentioned that my father had passed away. My friend, full of surprise and sympathy, exclaimed, "I'm so sorry. I had no idea your dad had passed away."
It was slightly awkward. My first response was to apologize to her. I had assumed she knew, and mentioned the event only as a point of reference for other events in the life of our family. I had not meant to plunge her unexpectedly into the role of comforter. I wanted to tell her the whole story and assure her that I am indeed "alright," but the unexpectedness of the situation only brought tears. Words were beyond me.
"It's okay," she comforted. "It's still too soon."
I wanted to say that it's not so much that it is "too soon," as it is that it is "too unexpected." I have told of my father's death many times, spouting medical, legal, and psychological terms without the least hint of a watery eye. I just wasn't prepared to do it at that particular moment.
And this is where grief gets messy and beautiful all at the same time: No matter how long it has been, no matter how many times you have shared it without emotions welling up and threatening to overcome you, grief is grief. It will smack you in the face at the most unexpected moments. In those moments, you will feel all the raw sorrow and horror of the initial tragedy. You will also feel the fleeting, anguished beauty of a life never to be recaptured. It all feels incredibly ugly, but it is a precious gift. It reminds you that you are human, and human with a history. It proves a connection to the deceased. It proves both the power of the life they lived and your love for them. There is no statute of limitations on sorrow.
Another beautiful thing is that some of the triggers that release your tears will be intensely personal and completely inexplicable to anyone else (and sometimes rather humorous when you remember why something reminds you of the person). Running on the treadmill last night, I listened to U2, one of my sister's favorite bands. A particular song came on, and I tried to listen. I really tried. I've always liked the song and really wanted to hear it... For many reasons, though, I had to skip it if I was to avoid bursting into an uncontrollable flood of tears. I could feel the waters threatening as I thought of the horses my sister so loved and of a young man whom my sister had been waiting to come around to talking to her again. (They bickered routinely, only to return to being best of friends. She knew that time would come sooner or later and said so in the days before her death). I would not have finished my run if I hadn't skipped to the next song. There are several such songs that bring my sister so clearly to mind, some perfectly cheerful and uplifting and some just silly. I will not call them all by name, at least not here, not now. They are sacred treasures, pathways to memory, not to be disturbed at present.
In closing, I know this isn't the cheeriest post, and I'm not entirely sure why I wrote it, except that I felt like writing something and this was on my mind last night. Also, I assure all of you that I am not a weeping basket case! Yes, I have my cries from time to time, but most of the time, it's neither "too soon" nor "too unexpected" to discuss the losses of my father and sister.
Sometimes, though, it's nice to know that that there are some feelings time cannot soothe into oblivion. In the end, when the swell of sorrow subsides, you can smile, cherishing precious life gone by and new life flourishing at every turn.
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