Lately, I’ve been thinking about how your mortality became painfully clear not much older than I am now. The dreaded “c” word answered the fears about your mysterious pains with a larger fear and a more frightening unknown: cancer.
I’ve lived longer without you physically in my life than with you. I’ve rarely felt anger about my loss at 14, perhaps finding no room for fury in my youth among the competing emotions of pain, grief, depression, and anxiety; oddly mixed with hope and a burgeoning faith.
Loss has interfered with some of life’s most joyful moments; No Dad standing proudly at my graduation, cheering my success; No father to twirl for a first dance at my wedding reception and to whisper sweet good byes in my ear; No maternal grandfather to hold his grandchild for the first time and dote for years to come; No wise fatherly advice for the complications of marriage, motherhood, and life.
Yet, I’ve always sensed you with me. Not far away, but beyond my touch. I feel the peace of your nearness, but I’m left wondering what you’d say in these moments, how you handled life’s challenges, what you’d do differently, what questions you wrestled with throughout your life. I long for journals to fill in the gaps. A letter left for me to read in the future. A glimpse of who you were beyond the father I knew at 14.
In my adulthood, I feel my first real tinges of the second stage of grief: anger for what you left unsaid. Not “I love you” or “you’re special.” The memory of those are stored indelibly in my heart. But I mourn for I did…I hoped…I wondered…I wanted…I planned…I recommend…I am.
Twenty years later, I still wear your woolen argyle socks. My book shelf is filled with my share of books you left behind. I can’t see a model airplane without imaging you propelling it into the air. I hold onto tangible reminders of who you are and search through boxes of your things, wanting them to tell more secrets, share more memories, and reveal to the adult me more of who you were.
I have no paternal grandparents to fill in the gaps, no aunt to regale me with stories of your youth. You are gone and your history along with you. Instead, I’m left with my mother’s memories of your memories, boxes of things, and a longing to know left perpetually unsatisfied.
I reach out to those who loved you, asking – wanting to beg – for tidbits of who you were in childhood, in adulthood. Anything.. They safeguard their memories, too distanced from the past, too grief-filled, too consumed by today to respond.
I am left frustrated with the fragmented memories of my childhood and the memoirs of a young teenager, tainted by her limited experiences. If you knew your years were limited, why did you only prepare the girl I was then, leaving so much unsaid for the woman I am now?
MotherhoodLooms says
Beautiful and heartfelt. I’m sorry for your loss. Time heals wounds, but it doesn’t answer questions. 🙁
Parenting Patch says
A very heartfelt post. Thanks for sharing.
Preppy Pink Crocodile says
Such a beautiful post! So well said and from the heart.
KK
Melanie Somnitz says
Thank you for putting yourself out there and sharing your grief. I have a favorite blogger that used this quote once in a post. It resonates in my heart and I often lean on it when I am reminded of my loss.
Anna Lamott writes,
“You will lose someone you can’t live without, and your heart will be badly broken, and the bad news is that you never completely get over the loss of your beloved. But this is also the good news. They live forever in your broken heart that doesn’t seal back up. And you come through. It’s like having a broken leg that never heals perfectly—that still hurts when the weather gets cold, but you learn to dance with the limp.”
If you want to read the whole post: http://www.calebwilde.com/2013/04/why-you-may-never-heal-2/
Thanks for sharing your limp.