Okay, Here's the Deal
Okay, here’s the deal. People tire quickly of the grief of others. I get it, it’s not their sadness. Their lives haven’t changed. But I’ll be honest here, it really gets my goat.
Damnit, my mom and dad died 26 days apart. I have been numb. I am coming out of the numbness and (as Elizabeth Kubler Ross said) have entered the “Anger” phase. But I’m not mad at Mom and Dad! I’m P.O’d that I am supposed to “carry on” as though everything is normal.
It’s not normal. When did it become de rigueur to become so solitary? Where are the days of women, gathered ‘round a fire, woolen blankets wrapped tightly or fallen beside them, sharing things, laughing, crying? (Important to note that I do have one friend whom I know will do this with me. She brought me many bags of groceries this week, all perfect for my knotted-up stomach)
My immediate co-workers have been fabulous, truly. These are people I have known less than a year, and they have opened their hearts to me. Wow.
I want to wear a black arm band so people know I am in mourning. I understand now, why that used to be a “thing.” It is, literally, wearing your heart on your sleeve. I’m going to make a few for myself and I am going to wear them.
Why? Why would I do this? NO, it’s not because I want people “sending you thoughts and prayers.” If you want to truly do something for me, do something nice for someone else. Curb your snarky tone if you have one. Give money to someone on the street, because as Mom would say, “We have no right to judge, only to help.” Give money to a school to pay off the lunch debts of children. Yep, that’s a real thing. Or, give money to a school specifically for school lunches so there isn’t any debt or payment.
Give, give to others, give of your time, your smile, and your patience when driving. Give compliments freely to family members, friends and strangers.
Why did I ask for stories of your pain? Not to intrude, I can guarantee you that. I am a story teller and story collector. They heal me, both in the creation, telling of them, and in the reading/listening to the stories of others.
I think I scared off a lot of people with my request. “Oh, I better not hit ‘like’ or she’ll think I like that she asked me to share my pain.” No, when you hit “like” it means you read my work. I don’t interpret it as meaning you agree with me in the least. Yes, there should be a response that acknowledges, “I read your piece.” Just that. No judgement one way or the other, but that response does not exist.
So…if you want to, share something painful with me. Share your sorrow. I need to read that I am not alone. I do realize that I am still alone. Mom and Dad are dead and are not coming back. But somehow, with the stories of others, I am not as alone. Hmm…am I as cross as I was at the beginning of my piece today? No.
Woah, does that mean I’ve moved on in my stages of grief? Perhaps. I am saying what I think, while still remaining kind. That’s who I am inside. Thank you for reading and thank you in advance for joining me around the metaphorical fire as we share a cup of tea, weeping, listening, honoring, the pain, the laughter, and the complexity of grief.
Dear Mary, I'm so sorry to read of your loss. Thank you for this primal scream of grief, which got me--got the tears gathered behind my eyes. I hear you sister when you cry, How did we get so alone? I wish I knew the answer to that. We are all walled up, you are right, physically and emotionally. I am too, even though I don't like it this way. How did it get this way? Good question. When I was in Morelia, Mexico a few weeks ago, I noticed a little "store" a few doors down from my AirBnB that I hadn't noticed before. The front door was open, and few articles of clothing were hanging in the doorway, including a Mafalda tee shirt and a cute shirt that said something like "Inhale Tacos, Exhale Negativity." I stopped and began chatting with the woman of about 40 who came forward. She told me that she and her mom who lives with her and was on the couch behind her, cast in the wan light spilling in, had opened their door to the world because they were so sad and needed to open to the world. They couldn't bear to be alone in their grief anymore. She explained her father had died the month before and invited me to to show me a portrait of him seated beneath a handsome tree. She said, "I never thought he would go. He was my best friend. We talked every day." Then, she showed me the portrait next to his and said, "This is my younger sister. She died of Covid in 2020. She was 35." The next day, I brought them grapes from Chile that I had gotten totally ripped off on but I sort of didn't care. I inwardly rolled my eyes when the young lady quoted her price and went ahead and paid. I bought a gorgeously painted blue and white bowl from the local covered market down the street and set the grapes into the bowl. I brought my offering the next morning. My new friend Marisol, for that was her name, accepted them shyly and thanked me for listening.
I have not spoken of this much because I’m afraid it will swallow me in one gulp. I went to my mom’s house after work one day. She asked me to run to the store and pick up her prescription. This day was pretty tiring, but I knew I could quickly run the errand and get home to rest. Before I left, my mom asked me if I wanted to sit down (something my mom always asked family and guests to do—it was the polite thing to do). I responded that I’ll go to the pharmacy first, then come back and sit down. In that very short time that I went to the store and returned, my mom was gone… she was gone. I missed out on 20 minutes of her life that I’ll never get back! Tears are streaming down my face as I write this and that old lump in my throat is back. But, it’s alright, I know this feeling won’t last too long and my smile will come back again. Especially if I’m allowed to sit by a warm fire sipping tea with my good friend. 🌸