I guess my grieving muscles haven't been getting much exercise. They're really screaming from the workout.
My dad has been disconnected from life support as of this morning. We've spent the day realizing that our world isn't going to be the same as it was when he was walking and talking among us.
Grief is so darn personal. You can't talk to another friend whose father has died and gain any insight into what it's going to feel like when your father dies. You can't listen to your siblings cry and understand what it is they cry for. All you know is that this saying goodbye is just about the most painful thing you've experienced so far.
So you write a tentative obituary and reflect on what you want to say about your dad so people will understand how great he was. You laugh and bicker and banter with the nurses. In the background your father lies as he has during many family gatherings: snoring loudly, mouth open.
What more can I say? Thanks for all the lessons. Thanks for your sacrifices. I'm sorry your dad died when you were young and that you missed a lot of your childhood. I'm going to miss you like hell. I love you.
Fly away, Dad. I'll catch up with you later.
4 comments:
Oh, Mamie, I am so sorry.
After my father died, a friend told me that grief is a vessel, sometimes filled to the brim, other times with just a drop, and that we drink from it in gulps or in sips, as much as we need, as much as we can bear, for as long as we must.
Thinking of you with love.
Mamie, thanks for sharing such a frank, personal matter. I can sympathize and empathize, but only, of course, to a certain extent. Some old hymn or song is trying to break through, something about a road or highway we have to walk by ourselves.
I'm thinking of you and your family.
I'm so sorry, Mamie, and typing this with big tears in my eyes, as I remember when my dad died. I hope your father's last days will be peaceful and pain free.
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