When Pop passed, it came with more relief than sadness. His decline at the very end was rapid and lasted only a few days, which was a blessing in itself. That it was expected, to the degree that Pop wasn’t going to live forever and his older brothers had passed at the age of 85, I suppose, made it somewhat easier. As a result, I didn’t cry when I heard. If I believed that I would never see him again, I think that my reaction would have been much different. But I do believe that I will see Pop again and the separation is only temporary.
Separation, however, can be painful, there is no denying that. At the time, though, I felt relief for him. He was no longer hindered by a body, once strong but weakened by age. His mind was now back to the sharp and capable mind that I still see evidence of in various projects that are part of the house or that are still present here. Maybe best of all, Pop was back with mom. After many years of loneliness and grief, that was now a thing of the past for him.
The morning of the funeral, I arrived before everyone else. It gave me some time to just be alone with my thoughts and, for the final time in this life, to be with Pop. If I hadn’t been alone I never would have done this, but with no one around I took a few moments to say goodbye. Something about the act of speaking just broke something loose, and for the first and only time since Pop died, the tears just flowed. And for a minute I just wasn’t ok.
I left the room to go to the bathroom to compose myself. On my way I passed a neighbor in my broken down state and he asked if I was ok. I think that we are so used to just saying things are fine when anyone asks that we rarely let anyone know what is really going on. I think normally I would have just nodded or said that I would be, but in that state, I was wholly and vulnerably honest and I said, “No.”
I wish I could remember what he told me verbatim, but in the moment I wasn’t looking for words of wisdom, I was looking to escape and recover, but he said something like, “We feel this sadness because we had great love.” That is a great truth to think about. We hurt because we care. Grief can seem like a debilitating disease, at times the loss feels so great that we can hardly get out of bed or put one foot in front of the other. As I reflect on things more, perhaps I am gaining a different perspective on the matter. Of course it hurts, sometimes tremendously so, and I think it’s meant to. What value would love have if its loss came with only some nominal amount of discomfort?
It is easy to wallow in sadness. Perhaps it is better to consider that grief is the memory of love. Even though it can be like an arrow to the heart, would it have such power to wound if it wasn’t backed by the force of joyful memories? This life is fleeting and temporary and none of us will make it out of here alive. And if that’s all there is, more’s the pity, but wouldn’t it be better to savor the good and beautiful memories that are the echoes inside that grief? Consider grief a protective blanket that reminds us to wrap ourselves tightly and bask in the warmth within rather than a weight that covers and suffocates.
Maybe that is what grief is for, to pull our minds out of the mundane and force us to ponder the good times and meditate on the experiences that taught us to love and the lessons we learned from so doing. Most things end badly, that’s why they end. Endings are a natural part of life. Even good things don’t go on forever, if they did we would grow used to it and eventually become bored. Then that thing would come to an end too. Chapters in books often end with a cliffhanger and no matter how many times we re-read the chapter the circumstances won’t change. It isn’t until we move into the subsequent chapters that we get to see the resolution. The great stories have twists and turns and unexpected events.
Grief can turn our lives from a page turning adventure story into a stagnant story if we don’t turn the page and move forward, but like a good mystery, we may need to re-examine the clues to put the rest of the story together. Even as I write this I know that there will be times I choose to wallow in grief and pity. Maybe, though, I will be able to recall the past with fondness and keep moving forward, whatever the challenge.