The moment after my father died, my sister climbed on my mother. She wasn’t hugging her, she seemed to literally be attempting to climb her. My mother and sister are the same size so it’s sort of physically impossible. So was the concept of my father being gone. We were all together in his hospital room, he waited until the entire family was there and then he left.
My sister might not even remember doing it. Maybe this is a false memory on my part, all bets are off at a moment like that.
In hindsight, my sister was probably trying to return to the womb in a desperate attempt to escape this piercing reality. In situations of physical threat, we grab onto things, hide, duck or otherwise brace ourselves for it, however futile the action might be against the threat. Still, it helps us to maintain the illusion of control.
When a loved one dies there is nothing we can do, though we try. Any attempt to call the person back is done with an awareness of its futility so it does very little to ease the pain. The sense of being ripped apart feels very real.
Happie has cancer. I grabbed on to apricot kernels in an attempt to make his cancer go away. Most days I can function normally, silently believing that the apricot kernels are getting rid of any cancer in his body. Two days ago the light switch of reality was flipped on after looking at the thinning skin around his massive tumor. It is growing and will eventually grow through his skin.
For 11 years I’ve been able to fix every problem he had. I’ll never stop trying to fix this one too but it doesn’t seem likely. He IS my nuclear family, my fur baby, and the thought of life without him is ________. The day after looking at Happie’s tumor an email came announcing the arrival of a package from Omaha Steaks. I thought it was a mistake. Who would send a gift of meat to a vegetarian? What seemed like a completely tone-deaf gift turned out to be about the best gift ever. There were some non-meat things in the box too, but the intention of the gift was to make Happie happy.
Since learning of his diagnosis about three months ago, I deliberately do things every day to make him as happy as possible. Existing in the present moment and eliciting joy out of Happie every day are the light posts I cling to during this emotional tsunami. The Omaha Steak gift perfectly supports this.
Loving any of God’s creatures comes with proportional grief. That grief doesn’t necessarily start after the loss, it starts when you know death is coming. So here I sit crying and writing. Yesterday I walked six miles. Other days I work out and do other things to alleviate the pain. Some days I do all those things. It helps but the pain is still there whether I acknowledge it or not.
Lately, I’ve been annoyed. Each thing that annoys me seems real and justified but it’s just a misdirect of grief. It is the internal bad stuff using another exit, just like Happie’s tumor about to exit through his skin.
I wanted to drink yesterday to dull the feeling. Fortunately, there’s no liquor in my house. It would have dulled the thoughts in my head, but the bad stuff would still ooze out in other, probably worse, ways. So here I sit, writing and crying, with Happie’s head on my foot.
Every day I am grateful for Happie. Today I am also grateful for the amazing unnamed soul who sent the gift. He’s unnamed only because he’d be mortified, I’m pretty sure, if I named him. The ability to find a way to walk someone through an excruciating experience is a priceless gift to the person being walked through it. I am confident karma will bless this gift giver infinitely. Now it is time to stop crying and make Happie a steak.
