Both. The answer is both.
Last week was the one year anniversary of my father’s entrance into eternity. It was a rough week. It’s been an even rougher year. A lot of things have gone undone, because grief and wrapping up 80+ years of someone’s life simply takes time. And a lot of headspace. Oh, and heartspace. Quite frankly, it’s exhausting. Anyone who has had a loved one pass away, knows what I’m talking about.
My brothers and I were involved in caring for my father in the last few weeks of his life. His health had been declining for some time, but a fall at home sent him spiraling quickly into a traumatic ending that none of us could have predicted. His body gave out on a Tuesday evening. I’ll never forget it. Some memories are just frozen forever in our subconscious. I’m so thankful that both of my brothers and I were with him as his spirit went home, but watching someone take their last breath is somewhat distressing. Even if you have faith that their spirit is moving on to a better place. It’s still disconcerting to witness. At least it was for me. It’s impossible to put into words the feelings this last breath experience produced for me. So, even though words are kind of my thing, I’m not even going to try.
What I do want to try to do in this post, is simply offer understanding and hope for those who have gone through devastating losses, by sharing mine. Understanding because I’ve been there, and hope because if you’re not there yet, I want you to know that things do get better, even in spite of the pain. There are plenty of well-meaning people out there who will tell you when someone you love dies to hang in there because you’ll get over it at some point. This is not true. You will suffocate in the process of trying to do so. You don’t really “get over it”, you just learn to live differently, with it. And you can adjust to different. Different is okay. There is room to breathe with different.
Hope whispers, different is okay.
A year later I still have very specific memories about those last moments with my dad. Some filled with sadness and pain. Some filled with joy and relief. All part of the journey. When my dad went to his heavenly home, because my mom had preceded him five years earlier, there was an insane amount of sorting to do. My brothers and I spent months sifting through 80+ years of memories. And stuff. Lots and lots of stuff. Some items were kept, passed on to the next generation; some boxed up and donated to unknowing recipients. There were excruciating moments where we truly felt torn as to whether or not some of their belongings should be kept by a family member or donated for some stranger to claim. I almost felt as if we were disrespecting them in some way by giving their things away. It sounds silly, but if you’ve been there, you know. Another part of the process that’s hard to pen the words around. In the end, we realized stuff is stuff and you can’t take it with you when you go, so we held on to the things that helped each of us feel the most connected to mom and dad.
If you have to sort through someone’s stuff, support is the key. This is not an activity that is for the faint of heart, or meant to do in solitude. I leaned on my younger brother a lot, and we had some ugly cry sessions, and then some more fun laugh-till-you-cry sessions. I couldn’t have survived the memories without him. There was also an angel flitting about at all times (my sister-in-law) who knew just what to say or do (hand me a kleenex or a glass of wine) at all the right times. We got through it, together.
There have been moments in the past year that I’ve felt like I was intertwined in a delicate dance with my parents and their memories, serenaded by the sweet tunes of love and legacy. Then there were times where it felt more like I was wrestling with demons from the past, once buried and now unearthed by the passing of time, and the passing of a life. Courage, love, pain, possibility, inspiration, despair, laughter, joy, faith, failure, revelation, sorrow, hope, resolution, and finally peace.
Every story has its triumphant moments. Every story has its darkest night moments.
Just like the sun rises on every new day, dark moments are eventually shattered by the light. Love and goodness will always triumph, no matter the story. My parents left behind a legacy of imperfect, but life-changing love in my brothers and me. I am grateful for all of the experiences I have had, painful and joyful, because they have made me who I am.
If you have survived the death of your parents, or anyone you hold close, it might help to think of the experience as both a ballroom dance and a wrestling match. Not either or. Both. At least this is the metaphor that has helped me make sense of my barrage of emotions, and brought me to a place of acceptance. Strength and resilience are being developed in every step, every move, every tear, and every memory you unleash from the past. So keep dancing and keep wrestling. Flexibility is the key that unlocks any psychological door you have to two-step or ball-and-chain your way through. And hope will be waiting for you on the other side.
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