Before my dad died, I told my sisters that even though we now knew death, we would feel something entirely different with his passing---something we couldn't then anticipate or know. I was right. I could not have imagined the pain of this medley of loss before being wrecked by it. The wound of my mom is wide open. My dad’s death is just becoming real. And we are readying to sell my childhood home, the symbol of everything I knew for sure during the first 30 years of my life.
Now I know nothing for sure.
People say they will accomplish certain things in their “next life.” It feels now like I am in a tidal wave of death and endings and that in my next life I'll be a person without parents.
I am writing this on a folding chair on the balcony off my parents' bedroom, looking down the lawn out to the river. The birds are so loud and active---all of them in pairs. Parents everywhere. I never noticed how many different greens there are in this yard as the spring trees bloom.
When I finish up here, I will return to their bedroom---my area of focus for today’s cleaning. The room where during my mom’s illness, I fell asleep beside her on the bed. The room where I ran her baths and while she soaked, cleaned and organized her closet. Now the closet is empty of her and full only of my father. I am sorting through him.
I’ve been trying on some of his button down shirts. As a kid, I didn’t dress up in my mom’s fanciest skirts and necklaces. I sifted through their closet and donned my dad’s hats and pants and ties. Now I am hugging his sweaters as I go, wishing I would have released myself into his hugs more when he was alive. I keep having to sit down on the footstool to cry into the sleeves of his red fleece coat.
There is too much going on to even keep track of, let alone write about. I’ve never wanted to hit pause more than I do right now. Things are moving too quickly for comprehension.
All I know for certain is that this pain and sadness feel bottomless.
If I can return here, I will.
If I can’t, well, I know you’ll understand.
Thank you all for your kindness and support.
8 comments:
Laura, may you be guided towards an eventual peace that will envelop you, providing comfort for your deep sorrow and loss.
I have faith that you will return here, here being your writing - the vehicle that has always allowed you to sort out life with all its intricacies and fuck-up-atudeness. It may take awhile. It may be tomorrow. But it is your voice and you will find it again, although it may be a new voice. We are never the same person from moment to moment, from day to day, and our voices change and grow, yet are still our voices. It doesn't have to be "here," you owe us nothing, but your voice will will return. I love you.
My heart breaks for you. I love you from the bottom of my heart & wish there was something I could say or do to take away all the pain you're feeling....I am here for you always. Please let us help if you need anything.
Love,
Beth the anonymous xoxoxo
Nice to hear from you Lo, even sad as hell. My heart aches for you.
Yes, it is another life, your next chapter in life. Guess it's a blank page right now...
So agree with everyone's comments above and feel the same way. Wish I could hold you guys up. The pain, loss, and changes you have been through over the past two and a half years is unreal. I know you are tough as nails and will make it through. Just wish there was a way to ease the pain.
Lots and lots of love,
Mart
Very touching makes me think bout my parents or my hubby when it comes. I get anxouis thinking bout it hard to fathom it. I try not too over think it live in the present for now.
I have been where you are. It's been 23 years since my Dad died.
I've followed your blog because I knew your Dad 40 years ago when he worked in the ER at Kent Hospital. I heard nothing but good things about him as an ER doc. I also share with you that I, too, had go through my Dad's things and sell a big home where I had spent a wonderful childhood in a home located on Narragansett Bay. My parents had lived in the house 50 years so it was a lifetime of memories for me. I can only pass on to you what was told to me when my Dad died: You don't get over losses like this, but you do adjust and move on with beautiful memories that our parents created for us.
Remember this: A piece of metal, caught between an anvil and the swinging hammer of a blacksmith will be stuck repeatedly until it no longer resembles what it was. It will however become something beautiful when all is said and done.
Been thinking about you kiddo, wish there was something I could do. Some poem to write to fix it all and make you smile again. It's strange how quickly things happen, I can still close my eyes and for a moment be back in that uncomfortable chair in class with you sitting in front of me. You have a lot of support from family and friends, but if you'd like to talk about life or death, or sun and stars, or green and blue, I'll be right where you can find me :)
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