After a Long Absence...

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.

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.