The Wilderness of Grief

On this day four years ago, I watched one of the best people I have known take his very last breath.  I held my dad’s hand, kissed his cheek, and with tears rolling down my face told him I love him for the very last time.  It was a day at the end of a lot of days that I will never forget, and it was the beginning of an endeavor of a difficulty level that I could not have imagined – and one for which I could never have adequately prepared.

 I’m not sure if I knew it when I spoke the last words I would ever have the chance to say to him, but I told my dad something that day that wasn’t the truth: I told him that I would be ok without him.  I had to say it; I knew that I needed to let him go on ahead with as much peace as I could offer him after all that he had been through.  But, even four years later … I can’t honestly say that I’m ok, at least not as I used to think of as ok.  I’m different, in many ways, and I guess there is some ok in that.  The anguish of missing him every day and of knowing that he wanted to stay here on this earth with us so damn bad, along with the things that my family and I learned during his illness have transformed me forever, for sure.

Grieving in our culture is often very hard: people seem to expect – and to want – those who are in mourning to be ok.  Messages like “Be strong!” and “He would want you to be happy” are the standard, and that is one of the things that makes grieving feel like swimming upstream. 

I remember talking to a friend whose dad had died many years before not long after my dad died.  She was still really grieving, she told me, and I was stunned.  How conveniently naïve I was, about grief and about a lot of things, before the lines were blurred.  Sometimes, when I think about my dad’s going on ahead, about not having him with us here on this earth anymore, my breath catches in my throat and I think, "I am not ready for this."  I know now that, like my friend and like so many others who have walked this path, I will never be really done grieving … and I think that’s the ok that I am left with.

                                                        I miss you, Dad//

Measuring the Course

As far back as I can remember, one of my dad's routines after he got home from a long run was to immediately jump into the car to drive the route he had run to measure the exact distance of the course.  (This was WAY before GPS systems existed.) Most people would probably choose to sit down to rest as soon as they could after a strenuous workout, but Dad was the kind of person who couldn't stand to let grass grow under his feet.  He taught us to have honor and priorities, to set goals, to set our mind to doing things and then to follow through. WAY before Nike said it, he used to say “Just Do It” whenever he heard someone make an excuse for not doing something they should have been doing; I remember so many tough runs when he would tell me to tuck in behind him so that he could block the wind for me after he'd said “Put your head down and let's just do it.”

If Dad could have “driven the course” at the end of his life, if he could have had the opportunity to examine what he had done and the choices that he had made along the way – I wonder to what he would’ve made adjustments.  Not much, I would venture to guess, and I think that’s pretty damn remarkable.  I'm not sure there are many people in this world who would be able to say the same.

Here's a question with some Food for Thought: What would your biggest regret be if today was your last day of life, and how can you attempt to right that regret?

Bronnie Ware is an Australian nurse who spent several years working in palliative care, caring for patients in the last few weeks or months of their lives. She recorded their dying epiphanies in a blog called Inspiration and Chai, and later she put her observations into a book called The Top Five Regrets of the Dying.  Ware writes of the clarity of vision that people often acquire towards the end of their lives and of how others can learn from their wisdom. "When questioned about any regrets they had or anything they would do differently," she says, "common themes surfaced again and again."

Here are the top five end-of-life regrets, according to Ware:

"I wish I'd had the courage to live a life true to myself, not the life others expected of me."  Looking back over the course of their lives (measuring the course), people often recognize that certain dreams they've had that have not been fulfilled, making this the most common regret of the dying.  And, as we learned when my dad got sick, by the time a person realizes that he needs to hurry to try to realize those remaining dreams, his health (and sometimes other obstacles) often restricts those goals from being attainable.

"I wish I didn't work so hard." Ware says that this was a regret shared by every male patient she cared for (and some of the women too).  What they wished they had done instead of staying late at the office so many times was to have gone to their children's ball games or school programs or to have spent more time with their spouse or other loved ones.  

"I wish I'd had the courage to express my feelings."  Ware says that many people reported that they had suppressed their emotions in order to keep peace with others.  They regretted not having told someone that they were angry with them - or that they loved them.  Sometimes this is a regret that can be addressed in the final stages of life, but many times the years that have passed since the issue began make it impossible to right on down the road.

"I wish I had stayed in touch with my friends."  In the midst of our hectic daily lives, it's easy to lose track of people who have meant so much to you and whose impact you may not realize until it's too late.  Again, sometimes when the person who is dying expresses this regret, loved ones from the past can be contacted, but many times it isn't possible.  

"I wish that I had let myself be happier."   The realization that death is near can give a person new perspective on things, and one of the things that is commonly realized is that happiness is a choice.  The clarity that often comes at this stage of life helps people to see the good in their lives much more clearly than they did before.  Other things like material goods no longer seem important.  People do want to get their financial affairs in order if possible, but it is not money or status that hold true value for them as they near the finish line - it's love, both given and received.  

Happiness - Pursuit and Perspective

I remember the first time I had a running injury that affected not just my running but also bothered me in when I wasn't running.  I remember lying in bed at night with my foot throbbing and thinking about how I hadn't appreciated being injury-free before I'd gotten hurt.  In time, the foot got better and the pain went away; I went back to running and back to not taking much notice about how lucky I was to be pain free.

That's kind of how it works when someone you love is seriously ill.  Except that in many cases, I would venture to guess, that perspective sticks ...  

... because seeing a loved one suffer physically and emotionally and going through all the things that grave illness entails changes a person, not just for during that time period but forever.

Since my dad's diagnosis and his subsequent death ten weeks later, I've begun to view happiness as the absence of sadness -  and goodness in life as the absence of, well, badness.  

People talk a lot about the pursuit of happiness, the quest for the Holy Grail, thinking they will be happy if ... if they win the lottery, if they get a promotion, if they lose weight, if this or that happens.  I've been guilty of such myself in the past.  

But that was Before. Before Cancer.  Before Loss.  Before I knew.

And so here's another perspective for people who are perpetually in search of something more: conducting such a vigorous search for happiness or peace or satisfaction or whatever it is they are looking for eventually becomes a self-defeating quest; the crusade itself is a constant source of stress and anxiety that is likely interfering with the attainment of that very objective.  Instead of always looking for something more, something "better," it might be helpful if they take a few steps back and consider how lucky they are to have their everyday lives, to be in the midst of the usual stress and chaos, rather than the alternative, which I guess is either being completely alone with nothing or no one to care about - or trying to cope with such extraordinary problems that going back to those everyday things becomes the goal with happiness as the reward.

In the thick of the usual day in-day out struggles, it's so easy to get caught up in thinking that life is tough, that things aren't great, that there is something better out there that you wish you had.  But when adversity comes along, especially when it affects your health or that of your loved ones and especially when it is life threatening, you realize that you just want to go back to having things the way they were.  Your perspective becomes that you didn't need anything more, because life was already good.

I think that's what tragedy gives away, or at least that's one thing that we can choose to take away from tragedy.  Once we've been through it, we have that special realization, that insider's knowledge that things could always be worse, because we are all too aware that, because adversity can be lurking just around the corner, we need to appreciate the calm, the ordinary, and the mundane, and that happiness is not something that we need to pursue - it's something we need to recognize in what we are already fortunate enough to have.

Connections

As a child, I loved nature and the outdoors. When I needed some alone time, I would often grab a plastic milk crate and, with that in hand, climb one of the pecan trees in our backyard.  High up in the tree, I would place the crate upside down in the branches and sit on it so I could relax as I felt the breeze blowing through the limbs and watch what was going on below.

One thing I've found since my dad went on ahead is a renewed feeling of that love for the open air and the peace that it gives me; it makes me feel some of the connection to my dad that I, like many others who have lost loved ones, am seeking - so much so that we often end up noticing, watching for, and even collecting things that remind us of our loved one.  Just like I did up in those tree branches many years ago, these days I find peace in the sight of a rainbow or a particularly magnificent sunset or a bird that seems to be looking right at me for an atypical amount of time.

A few months after my dad died, I mentioned in conversation with a friend that I derived a little bit of comfort in having some of my dad's things with me - an old shirt of his, a pair of his socks, a book of his with the corners of some pages folded over where he had marked his place.  My friend, who had been through the loss of a parent before me, told me that she understood, and she predicted that at some point I wouldn't feel as strong of a need to hold onto my dad's things because I would feel connected to him through my memories instead.  She may be right, but I'm not there yet.

For as long as I can remember, my dad had a favorite pillow.  He was always a little particular about things that affected the quality of his sleep; I guess that came from getting up so early to run for so many years.  For years while I was growing up, he had an orthopedic-type of pillow that he slept on every night; he even took it on road trips so he would have that one instead of having to sleep on a hotel pillow.  There were several instances when he left his pillow behind in a hotel room, and, when he realized his mistake, he called the front desk at the hotel and with his usual friendliness persuaded an employee to mail it back to him at home.

When I went to the hospital to be with my dad when he first got sick, I brought a pillow from my house.  The pillow case was one that my daughters had tie-dyed months before; I thought it would be good to have an extra one at the hospital for Dad or whomever was staying there with him to use, and I knew the original design of that pillow case would differentiate our pillow from one that was hospital property.  That pillow ended up following us along during the whole time Dad was sick, going with us from the hospital, to rehab, to the hotel where we stayed when we took Dad to the Brain Tumor Clinic at Duke, to my parents' house, to the hospital again, and finally back to my parents' house.  When we brought Dad home from the hospital the last time, we bought about a dozen new pillows to use to position him to try to keep him comfortable in the hospital bed; we encased all of them in blue pillow cases which we'd also purchased just for that purpose.  The pillow in the tie-dyed case wasn't needed anymore, and so I took it to sleep on, first at my parents' house and later at my own house.  I sleep on that pillow every night now; it, like the outdoors and like some of Dad's things from when he was healthy, bring me some comfort in an unexplainable way, especially at night when I seem to need it the most. 

The pillow that followed us

I imagine that it is a universal struggle for those of us left behind to decide what to do with the belongings of the person who has gone on ahead.  Dad would tell us to get rid of it all; he'd think we were being silly and sentimental, and he would point out that it's just stuff.  And it is, but his possessions marked his place in the world, and, in a way, I feel like they still do.  

Everything that changes in my parents' house - even in my house and even in the world around us - is something that takes me further away from him.  The first few times I was at my parents' house [I know I should just call it my mom's house, but sometimes I revert back to referring to it as theirs] after Dad died, I found myself looking around for dust - not to check my mother's housekeeping skills but because I had read somewhere a long time ago that household dust is made up of mostly skin cells, and so I reasoned that some of Dad physically was still there.  I felt - and I still do to some extent - desperate to hold onto anything that has the possibility of making me feel connected to him.  

Along the way, we've cleaned out and gotten rid of some of Dad's stuff; we donated some of his suits and most of the many pairs of running shoes that were crowding his closet.  It felt a little like ripping off a band-aid, except for the fact that it still hurts afterwards too.  Again, I am sure he would have wanted us to give those things to someone who will use them, but letting go of any of it is still a really hard thing to do.  I just don't want to lose any more of him.