“We bereaved are not alone. We belong to the largest company in all the world--the company of those who have known suffering.”
― Helen Keller, We Bereaved
August 31, 2024
Dear Mom,
The past year, grieving for you has been an ebb and flow, like the tides that came into the beaches of Tofino this past June. They were either high or low. Some crashed into the jagged rocks, some cleared the beach for us to see the life that had been washed to the shore, trying like hell to claw their way back to the ocean waters before they perished. I understood the sea creature’s need to find their way home. I wanted to pick them up, carry them to their sanctuary, but I found out long ago that it is not my place to interfere with God’s will.
I often find myself looking at this world for the both of us. The past year I have gotten to travel to mountains and fjords. I drank from a river that was fed by a glacier high above. I have seen sunsets that brought tears to my eyes, and I have tried to be grateful for each sunrise, understanding more than ever that it is not guaranteed. I have touched parts of this planet that have made me grateful for my existence. Even with my travels to foreign lands, where you have walked with me the entire time, some of my greatest moments this past year have been to simply sit among the trees, looking up at them realizing that it is an amazing life that I have the privilege to be among them. My life, my body, is just a wood sliver in the palm of a sturdy hand compared to them. Sitting there, breathing deep and thinking of you, I am reminded of my impermanence. It makes me think of how short this life truly is, as the journey is simply a blink of an eye, a breath, a gentle melody. And, it is you that gave me this life, this time to drink from that glacier and sit with the trees. I am a visitor here. I sometimes wonder, who will grieve for me someday? Then, I realize that thought is selfish and let it pass.
This past year, and before that as you are aware through the letters I wrote to you, I have attempted to find the words for your loss. Sometimes those words have come to me, and sometimes I feel illiterate to the suffering that grief brings. Grief is stronger than me. It is a force, one that does not go away, but grows stronger with each passing day. Today is the year anniversary, but every day is an anniversary of you being gone, none easier than the rest.
I have said that grief is love. I believe I can speak for your children and grandchildren when I say this, but there is a hole, a large gap in our hearts because you are missing. You are gone from our sight. Your strong and formative presence is no longer there. However, all we have to do is close our eyes, bring back your memory, and you are there sitting amongst us again. I for one have talked to you throughout this past year, carrying on conversations, telling you how I am, and often seeking your wisdom and advice. I hope you are listening as it seems I will always speak to you for the remainder of my time here on earth. I am certain that the powers that be, whomever that may be, would have me committed if they knew how often I spoke to you, but I see no reason not to talk to the dead. There are others I have lost that I speak to every so often. For us, we have had enough dialogue in our fifty-three years together that I can almost predict your response. The “Powers that be.” I just reread that and oh how foolish I am to say those words in a letter to you. As you know, I believe no one can have power over me without my permission. It’s that stubbornness for life and freedom that I share with you.
I have to tell you a few things that have happened this year. I have seen you out of the corner of my eye. You are wearing a red robe. Always the same outfit. It is long, all the way to the ground, and you have walked past me, often when I am writing or sitting in reflection, trying to understand my emotions and reactions to this life that is unfolding before me. I have had a heaviness in my chest and I often wonder if I am on the verge of death. It is my anxiety coming to the surface. Last October, it surfaced as a panic attack that was uncontrollable. I think it was the pain of losing you coming to the forefront and exposing my grief. It needed to come out, so I ended up in the emergency room. When I came home and laid in my bed staring at the ceiling I said in a soft voice, “That one was for you mom.” I have tried to understand your death the best I could and tend to my grief. I realized that it was more difficult to watch you suffer with your cancer than it was for you to die. I have sat with my decision to ask the Hospice Nurse to increase your morphine to the maximum extent, knowing what the outcome would be, which was a speedier death, and it made me wonder was I being selfish because the pain of witnessing you suffer would then be over? Yet, you and I talked about it so many times, that when that time came to make the decision, I did so out of respect to you. Still, it haunts me at times, feeling like I told the nurse to kill you quicker. When my time comes, if I am in your same circumstance, I hope someone will be strong enough to let me go a little faster. I care not to let those I love watch me suffer. Though, and this is another thing I have sat with after losing you, I sometimes ask who loves me? I know there are a few, but I have felt alone on many days. I do believe the loneliness is because you are no longer present. Your love was a mountain. I heard it often, the words, “I love you, hon.” Losing those words is like losing the sun.
What else can I tell you about this past year? I have taken a new job. I am unsure if I will be what they need me to be but all I can do is stay true to my values and offer them kindness, empathy, and compassion. Perhaps, I can be a guide, but I often question my value and worth. The only other thing that I can add is that this year has reminded me again as to how I want to live my life, and that is to experience it all, the good and bad, and be a responsive learner. To take any wisdom I have gained from suffering and joy, and offer it to the others if they want it. I can only give what I have, and many times that is my thoughts and words. You will see in a year from now, that many of those words I offered to you will be offered to the world. That is all I will say about that for now. The year, like all years, has been filled by moments. Too many to mention, but the little moments are what make up a life. They blend and form into who we are.
I open my closet door each morning to a pair of your shoes sitting parallel to one another. I walk into the room I created with many of your paintings and meditate and then start moving slowly, as gracefully as I can from yoga pose to yoga pose. It is how I continue to heal my body. I sit in a room where your curio cabinet holds your and Charlotte's ashes and displays pictures and a few ornaments of our history. In this room I write these words. I have written many words there, feeling your presence, knowing that writing is something that we shared, held sacred, understanding one another’s need for creating and attempting to understand life. I sit now, as I have before, writing words in an attempt to explain and understand death.
A year ago, around 11:30 pm, you took your last breath and simultaneously my legs shook and ran like hell in my sleep. It is still something that I am trying to process. Was I running after you? With you? Were you passing through me, leaving me, your youngest, a little more of yourself to carry with me for this lifetime? I can place the weight of that in my backpack and carry it around for my pilgrimage here on earth.
I miss you! I remind myself daily that I am still breathing, but it takes a little more effort to inhale a full breath this past year. It will be this way for the remainder of my life. I understand pain and suffering more than I would like, but it has made me stronger, hoping that I am living a life where one day people will remember me and say, “He was a kind man who cared about others.” That would be enough.
I have known many people this year that have lost their loved one, some lost their mother, and they have reached out saying, “I don’t know how to grieve.” I am not sure I do either. I am unsure anyone knows how to grieve. The best I can do is explain it as another part of our journey, an important part. If we are fortunate enough to love and to live a long life, grief will visit us all. It connects us as humans for there is no suffering like losing someone you love. My plea to everyone, including myself and my family, is to be mindful in showing gratitude for your grief because it means that you were loved. There is no love like a parents for their child, or so we hope. I am thankful I experienced your love for me. Now, I will go and sit with this pain and tend to it. For today is a year that you have been gone, but tomorrow is one year and one day, and the days with your absence will pile up until I am one day absent.
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