My car rolls down I-25, southbound, the freeway bending behind me like a long black ribbon in the rear-view mirror. I try to focus on the road, but having driven this route nearly 75 times in my life, it’s difficult to concentrate. I’m returning home after helping my mom pack up the family home, in preparation for her move to my state. It’s a five-hour drive, which offers me plenty of time to think.
South of Raton Pass, the northern New Mexico terrain opens up into vast grass plains with mountains and mesas rising in the distance. Buffalo graze to my right; a herd of antelope scatters to my left.
Dad loved this area. To him, it was reminiscent of the Old West, where you could hop on a horse and gallop into the sunset.
So, today, this is what grief looks like: buffalo grazing near the highway and vast prairie grasslands stretching west to the deep green mountain range.
At home, grief looks like this:
- an empty bird feeder, bereft of seed, because Dad isn’t there to fill it – and I don’t have the heart
- dying sunflowers, which Lee quit watering because they were ripe, and he lacked the motivation to maintain them after Dad was gone
- a dog in search of her friend; Maxine frequently wanders into Dad’s room, sniffs around, and then looks at us in puzzlement
And grief sounds like this:
- the quiet that comes from no walker wheels scraping on the floors
- a lack of baseball commentary on the TV
- the absence of laughter over something Dad said or did
At work today, grief looked very much like a teary meltdown during a conversation with my boss about my job frustrations. (I had to spend a few minutes in the restroom, composing myself. How unprofessional!)
Mainly, for me, grief looks and sounds like darkness and silence. No lights thrown on in the middle of the night. No jangling walker accompanied by shuffling feet. No inconsequential sports chatter.
Darkness and silence.
It would be unbearable, except grief also looks like:
- A jungle of tomato plants bearing fruit
- Improbable cucumber vines producing more crisp vegetables than a family of two or three can possibly eat
- A random Blue Jay watering itself at the birdbath
And grief also sounds like:
- A good friend on the other end of the telephone, telling you your tears are not ‘ridiculous’
- Co-workers who tell you not to worry, as they close ranks to cover for you when you absolutely must attend the funeral
- Your siblings reassuring you that it’s normal to be sad about the closing and sale of the home that's been the family command center for three decades
And your husband who holds you tight and tells you to go ahead and cry, because it’s therapeutic. That’s what my grief looks and sounds like.
Wow. Thank you for your postings. I have been baffled by my lack of tears at the death of my very dear mother. We were extremely close and I am having trouble understanding why I cried more when our family dog died, than when my mother passed. Perhaps it is coming yet, but I really appreciated hearing that this can be a normal stage. Thanks all.
Thank you to everyone who posts. Your words sustain me in ways you will never know. I learn so much from each of you! What a wonderful community we have here.
Elizabeth, you wrote very eloquently about your feelings. I have recently joined this care group. By reading several individual comments, it helps me realize that there are many others in the same situation I find myself. My mother, who hasn't known me for at least four years, has gone backwards in her life with Alzheimer's until she is now in her late grade school, early high school years. Her repetitive questions, her unending confusion, her retention of less than 10 seconds are all very draining. I am all she has, so 24 x 7 is very difficult, and I do not know how much longer I can do this, but someday I won't have her and I can look back and know that I did the best I could. Elizabeth, that is what you have done, the best you could.
Elizabeth, I can only "Ditto-and Ditto" all those who have previously commented. Thank you for sharing this difficult time with us. Although my parents are still alive, although declining, we lost my sister in May. I have had more problems dealing with it since her birthday in August and the start of school. She was a teacher until just three years before her death. We always talked about the interesting things our grandchildren do at the beginning of school. Your blog helped me grieve, even though she left us months ago God Bless and keep you.
Elizabeth - I can't feel your pain. I didn't know your Dad other than this blog. But I so relate to you! Only you are missing those special things about your special Dad, but I certainly feel a TON of empathy for you! Momma's a gardener and I see momma following the same path as your Dad. The incredible stress of maintaining a job while caring for your parent - well you are commendable for sharing wtih us. I have cried over your parent passing, and for mine as well. very theraputic indeed. Thank you a thousand times over for sharing your sweet self with us. A long distance hug to you from TX.
Find a creative outlet. The hospice that cared for my Dad sent a quarterly newsletter for a year after he passed away. One of the articles said that finding some outlet that allows you to tap into your inner self, will be helpful more than anything else. I now have 6 books published...not making any money, and no parent to be happy with me, since Mom no longer knows who I am or how to read, but still... Paint, draw, write poems, play music, sing. There is something you enjoy doing. Don't worry about how well you do it. Just do it. Peace be with you.
The comments above are so good that I can't add much except that if you can get in a grief recovery group, it really helps. Our church runs one whenever people ask and it can be very helpful. tp share the necessary stages of grief with others. God bless you both and I will be praying for you and your future healing and dealing with your mother.
Elizabeth... I feel like you are me. My heart breaks for you. Sometimes when I have bad days with my father, I think of the quiet I would have without him. Love you.
I know where you are Elizabeth. I have lost both of my parents; my dad to complications of alzheimer's and my mom to a very aggressive form of cancer (mom died within two weeks of her diagnosis- 5 days before my birthday). Nothing is goin g to make you feel better and we all grieve differently. I had the same feelings when looking around the house, not seeing either of them. I would see and smell things that reminded me of them and fall apart. I functioned like a zombie; I put my mask on for my coworkers to see and would fall apart at the thought of being "orphaned" by my parents. It is especially difficult if you grew up in a loving, nurturing home, which it sounds like you were. Every day seems a struggle, but somehow we muddle through it. What helped me was talking about them, crying for them and praying for them. It never gets easier, but eventually there is acceptance. believe it or not, my animals helped ease my pain; they seemed to understand the grief I was going through and never left my side. I hope that this horrible feeling passes from you and you can get on with your life and be happy. My thoughts and prayers are with you.
Elizabeth, I am glad that you finally have some time for yourself. Grieving is painful but we can't begin the healing process until we have grieved. I'm glad you have Lee and great colleagues at work to support you. You continue to be in my thoughts and prayers! Cathy
Grief comes in many forms, Elizabeth, as you are so eloquently relaying to us. It will remind you that it is there in many little ways. In things you see, hear, feel and experience. Your grief over the loss of your father will not be stopped by the continuance of life. However, as you are seeing, life will continue on...little by little. Please take time for yourself and allow feelings to come as they will. We that have walked the road you are now walking, or will be walking that road, care about you and pray that you continue to find strength, where you can, to get through these dark days. {{hugs}}
Every word touched my heart. I felt the pain, the loss, the helpless feeling. But also felt the hope....knowing theres a new day ahead for all of us that must go on, even when it feels like we can't. Thank you for sharing and putting into words, what so many of us are feeling.
I have followed your blog with empathy, tears, and hope as I cared for my 90, 91 year old mother and father. They died within 10 days of each other in July. Planning two funerals in 2 weeks, my basement packed with "stuff" my mother could not part with and files of "important" papers, and time I've not had in 2 years to rediscover who I am have left me numb. After retiring from teaching, I took on their care-giving and again am redefining my life. Kind of exciting, but care-giving has taken its toll on me. I don't know if I am grieving or if I am exhausted. Thank you for allowing us into your life. I, too, have found "the world" does not allow us to take time to grieve or adjust to the change in our daily lives. I am learning lots! Please allow us to walk through the grieving process with you as your care-taking continues with you mother. You have inspired me.
Elizabeth, I certainly feel your pain in these last few blogs. I know I will be there at some point with my mom and my dad. Sometimes it seems to be the little things that bring us down the hardest. Two years ago my best Buddy, Maxx Catt passed away in my arms. He was 19 and had spent the last 17 years with me. Monday, I said goodbye to my little girl, Kahlua, a Brittany Spaniel that we rescued 15 years ago. It has only served to remind me that life is a fleeting thing and that we must live, love and laugh the best we can while we can with those we hold so special to us. I am keeping you, Lee and your family in my prayers and hope that you will soon start remembering the wonderful times you had with your dad and can start healing. Much love!