Heather:
Grief, for me, is a black hole. It sucks all
that is good into its center and leaves me feeling hollow and cold. After
Dad died, I avoided life. I threw myself into work, but I wasn't living.
I wasn't enjoying anything. I braced myself for the pain of
holidays only to have days like my birthday and random Wednesdays take my
breath away.
I was angry.
At the world.
All of the time.
I made some decisions that were...well, stupid
and reckless. I didn't tell anyone, but I was also a little afraid of
myself.
During the whole time Dad was in the hospital,
people would ask me if I needed anything and I would tell them that I needed a
drink the size of my head. After, it was almost a year before I allowed
myself to have a drink. I had been afraid that I would start and just not
stop. Eventually, the anger and recklessness subsided and I began to feel
guilt. I felt guilty for things like laughing or enjoying a sunset.
I'm not sure when the guilt began to lift, but one
day I noticed that I just felt lighter.
Then Gran fell and never recovered. My heart
broke and I was afraid that I would, once again, be sucked into the black hole
of grief. My sister stopped me. I don't think she knows how
grateful I am because I don't think I've been able to communicate just what she
did for me. The last time I was called home, Court met me in the front
yard. She hugged me--tight--and handed me tissues. She whispered
something that was lost in the rush of my fear. If it hadn't been for
her...I don't like to think about what would have happened to me.
A few weeks after we scattered Gran's ashes, I was
at my apartment--lying on the couch reading and silently debating whether or
not I should change and go to the gym--when Mom called. I could tell
something was wrong by the feel of the pause between my hello and her first
word.
Airplane accident. Amy. James.
Lucas. No survivors.
I had just seen Amy's post on Facebook--a smiling
mother and son at play with mountains in the background. I had envisioned
a smiling father holding the camera to capture the moment.
Gone.
I remember dancing with Lucas at our cousin's
wedding reception. He had been all smiles and giggles. I can't
remember now what came first--the dance or the diagnosis. (Lucas had been
diagnosed with Ataxia-telangiectasia or A-T.
A-T "is a rare genetic disease that attacks children, causing
progressive loss of muscle control, immune system problems, and a high rate of
cancer." For more information, please visit
http://www.atcp.org.) Though he faced such difficulties, he was always smiling.
Amy's mission after the diagnosis was to raise awareness and to make each
day the very best for little Lucas. Their little family had taken on each
day with such energy. Lucas even became a Junior Member of the Ohio
Highway State Patrol. I remember watching the video of the ceremony.
His smile and genuine happiness had brought me to tears.
At Dad's funeral, my sister said one
of the wisest things I have ever heard and I will attempt to recreate it
here. She said that Dad had a certain energy and that energy cannot
be destroyed. Dad, then, was still with us.
He would never leave us.
As I drove to my Nan's house, I
thought of what Courtney had said and I thought about Amy and Lucas' energy.
A week later, as I drove to
Marysville, Ohio, for the first of two services, I wondered what I might
say to my aunt, uncle, and cousins. I remembered how I had felt standing
in the line beside Dad's casket hearing people tell me how sorry they are or
how God has a plan. I know people say these things because they feel like
they have to say something, but I seriously wanted to punch people.
And then Amy had come through the line. (I'm close in age
to Amy's younger sister, Leslie, so I had spent a good deal of time at their house.
I remember arguing with her over toys and television channels.
I also remember Amy telling Leslie and I that we could be in the
same room with her when we brought her a glass of ice water with the ice at the
bottom of the glass. If you've never tried it, trust me when I say it's a
rather difficult task. We made it happen, though. We put some ice
in the bottom of a glass, dribbled some water over the ice, and then put the
whole thing in the freezer. It may have been cheating, but we should get
some points for creativity!) She pulled me in for a hug and whispered in
my ear about how she remembered my Dad being so excited when Mom got pregnant
and how he always had been so proud of me. All I had been able to say in
reply was a feeble thank you.
When I hugged my aunt, uncle, and cousins, all I could say was, "I love you. So much." Nothing else had seemed appropriate. I sat while they stood, but we all kept vigil.
When I hugged my aunt, uncle, and cousins, all I could say was, "I love you. So much." Nothing else had seemed appropriate. I sat while they stood, but we all kept vigil.
We are better--I am better--because
we knew them.
I stopped writing. I wondered
if I would ever write again. Something that had become second nature
to me felt clumsy and wrong.
Then, I started writing letters.
The first letters were to a friend of mine. I told him everything I
was thinking and feeling. Nothing was held back.
I never mailed the letters.
After a while, I started writing
letters to Leslie. I wrote about the scene outside of my office at work.
I wrote about my students. I wrote about grocery shopping.
I mailed the letters every week.
A couple of weeks ago, I filled a
page in a journal that had been long neglected. The next day, I added a
little more.
I am better because I knew them.
I carry my grief every day. There's at
least one thing that happens that I would like to report to my Dad. I
can't watch Jeopardy! or Wheel of Fortune without missing
Gran and Pap. As I do my hair in the mornings, I think about Aunt
Winsome and how she always looked so put together while I look one moment away
from being a mess. I dance around my house (usually while cleaning)
and I think about the little boy and his parents who taught me about what it
means to really live.