It has been 40 days. And I’m doing okay, really, I am.Each one of you has either experienced the death of someone very close to you or, let’s face it, you will. This was my second “biggie”, so to speak. I thought I was ready.
When my grandmother Mary Jean died four years ago I was surprised when Homecare Hospice started sending me things in the mail. How in the hell did they even get my address or name? Somehow, they learned that I was one of her children (okay, most of you know the story well but for those first time readers who don’t….my maternal grandparents raised me, from the age of five).
I’ll be honest. I threw away everything Hospice sent me. Honestly, I didn’t need a pamphlet to tell me I was grieving or to give me permission to cry, be angry, or shut down. Besides, I felt “okay” then just like I feel “okay” now.
Maybe that's a little untrue. Maybe losing my Grandmother tested me as I never expected; tore my heart in ways for which I wasn't prepared. I mean, come on. Most mothers love us like no other human on the planet can love us, right? My champion, biggest fan and rock was gone. Forever. Period.
“Okay” doesn’t mean it doesn’t hurt like hell. “Okay” doesn’t mean I don’t feel the loss of them in my life every. Single. Day. Or that I don’t sometimes find myself looking up, tears in my eyes, whispering “I can’t believe you are gone; I wasn’t ready!”
“Okay” doesn’t mean that I don’t sometimes gasp when remembering I will never. Ever. See them again.
Just typing those words make it hard to breathe.
“Okay” does mean that I push through the pain and have a pretty solid mental understanding of the processes and of the inevitability of loss in all of our lives. Pragmatically, I also understand that I was blessed to have had both of my (grand)parents until they were almost 90 years old. If fate were to be so unkind as to take my spouse, children, or best friends some time soon I might not see things so pragmatically. In fact, I’m not sure I could ever write about it.
So why am I writing about my Grandparents? Today I received a third mailing from Homecare Hospice since Grandpa Delbert died 40 short days ago (but who’s counting?).
Instead of throwing the papers away I decided to read them. After all, I had a small breakdown today while driving. It was prompted by the Fairway KU Med office, which we we passed while driving down Shawnee Mission Parkway. My Grandfather’s much adored sleep specialist from KU, Dr. Stevens, has relocated there and his next appointment would have been at this office.
Sometimes I forget how quickly the pain punches you in the chest.
Marah looked away. She’s seen it a few times before. Once, about six months after Mary Jean died, we pulled into the garage and a song came on the radio. The punch felt the same as today’s punch: squeezing my lungs, burning my eyes, clenching my throat. She was nine, Brody’s age, and simply looked at me and said “you are missing Grandma, aren’t you?”. Out of the mouth of babes…
The literature from Homecare Hospice talked about grief, techniques to get through it and pathways to peace and wholeness. What it has done for me today is to reaffirm that what I’m doing is healthy, at least for me personally.
Here’s the deal. I’m a talker, big time. I’m not a talker about my deep feelings, however. I don’t need to be. I write about them. So I’m doing that today.
I’m a hoarder; a hoarder of family mementos. If it’s a photo of my Grandparents, it’s been preserved. If it was an item given to me by them, I’ve saved it. Not only have I saved it, but I get it out. I touch it, hold it, close my eyes and try to imagine the item's place in their past.
Several years ago my Grandfather bequeathed me something he had made when just seventeen years old. Two pieces of wood with a hole drilled in each and a chain linked through them. On one he had carved “Mary Jean” and on the other “Chinker”. They were companion “necklaces” before the days of Claires “BFF” matching heart necklaces. These pieces of wood are so much better. Grandpa’s school nickname was Chinker. He made these during the earliest days of their love affair. I find myself holding them frequently lately, closing my hands around them while letting the grief wash over me.
The Hospice literature says to let yourself grieve. I cry when I need to but I shut it down quickly. I don’t let it consume me. Okay, that’s not true. On a few occasions, when I’m alone and have a little bit of time, I’ll let it wash over and blanket me. I’ll sob, deep, wracking sobs. And it feels good, almost like a workout. When I’m done, I quietly tell them I miss them and I move forward. I think this is okay.
I have one of her cotton bathrobes, the knee length zip up kind she used to wear while making breakfast. I hold it to my face and try to breathe in her scent. There is no smell anymore…after four years, it is gone. But my grandfather’s Dickie jump suit still smells like him and I covet it now. Mary Jean taught me that the smell will leave; I want to bottle his smell because when it goes I’ll have to experience a small amount of loss again.
It’s okay to keep these possessions, really, it is. If you are reading this, sniffling because you’ve done the same thing, KNOW THAT IT IS OKAY.
Hospice mentioned that grief can strengthen relationships when others reach out. I was blown away at the level of support provided by friends, old and new. Argue all you want about small town versus big town. I’m here to tell you both are filled with amazing people. I’m blessed to have experienced old friends who reached out, after decades, to hold me. I am also blessed to have met some of the most amazing people in my “post” small town life. Friends who made a two hour drive and showed up, unexpected, to extend their shoulders and hearts on my behalf.
Of all the things we need to get through grief, this is the most important: people who love you and who will be there for you without being asked. I’d like to name each of you, but you know who you are and, most importantly, you have my deep and abiding gratitude. You also have my promise. I will be there for you when you need me because I’ll know you need me. I’ve been on the needing end now and it humbles, teaches, wakes you.
The literature also says to create a new relationship with your deceased loved one, a non-physical one of the heart, mind and spirit. This means incorporating your loved ones values and passions into your own life and passing them on to others.
In order to do this, I’m taking a long look at my relationship with my husband and with my children. What better way to pass on their love than to start with the three most important people in my life?
Our generations are worlds apart. We are busier, less connected. When I look back on the lives of my grandparents, this is glaringly apparent.
Things weren’t perfect. My grandmother struggled with deep feelings of inadequacy and low self-esteem. She questioned her intelligence because she didn’t go to college. She was the quintessential housewife who never, ever, put herself first and who never experienced a “girls night out” in her life. But my Grandfather also made her the focal point of everything in his life. He didn’t engage in “boys night out” either, at least not in their middle aged years and later. Maybe they should have...who knows. What I do know, having been their child, is that my home was solid, dependable, and they were always there. Every night. Every weekend. Every time I needed them.
I don’t want to be June Cleaver, I truly don’t. But I do want to take time to reflect on how today’s values have maybe impacted how I treat my kids and husband. We are the generation of parents who have to ask two, three, four times “what did you say?” because we are reading a text and missed our child’s question. Mary Jean never had to ask me to repeat a question because she wasn’t listening.
They weren’t perfect, not at all. But the hospice literature has reminded me that they were pretty damn close.
The one thing I haven’t done yet to help conquer the grief is incorporate their values into my own life. Sure, some of those values were instilled and are a part of me without trying. If I am honest, however, I fall woefully short in other ways. I know which ways….I don’t have to write about them….I just have to work on them.
And if I do? Maybe the next 40 days will be easier.
So thanks Hospice. Keep spending the postage. Some of us can use the message.
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