If love would die, along with death, this life wouldn’t be so hard.
So, as many of you have probably surmised, the new job-and a few other things-have kept me kind of busy, and away from posting on the forum-I've missed it. That doesn’t mean, though, that I haven’t been thinking-or peeping in from time to time. I deliberately refrained from posting on the Newtown shooting-, though, it struck me, under the circumstances, as kind of disrespectful to do so. For those of you who are gun-control advocates, and chose that sad occasion as one in support of your position-shame on you. For those of you who are gun ownership advocates, and chose to use that occasion as one in support of your position-shame on you as well. At some point, I’ll chime in about Newtown and gun control, but for now, I want to talk about something a bit more vague, that I actually know something about, grief.
I am, as some of you know, a widower-at least, I was-I suppose remarrying frees me from that title, though not the grief that accompanies it; my mom is a widow. My father, rather comically, called himself an “orphan,” when his mother passed away in 1972-at the age of 72, when my father was 44, and hardly the image of “orphan.” My mother has also lost a child, and tellingly, unlike orphan, widow, or widowerm there is no word for that particular loss
Usually, I’ll define a problem or situation, then present a solution. In this case, there isn’t really one problem, or one catch-all solution-just some guidelines. I’m also going to take the liberty of offering up half of the problem, some of those guidelines, and then defining what I think to be the root of the problem…
Years and years ago-40 years this summer, I think, a little boy in my neighborhood rushed into his burning house, thinking his sister was still in there. She wasn’t, and the little boy-a boy of about 8 or 9 at the time-was killed in the fire. The boy’s family attended my family’s church, and my father knew him through Cub Scouts-so it was only natural that my father perform the service for the little boy. Being a priest’s son in those days usually meant that I got to assist (as altar boy or acolyte) on weddings, baptisms, and other occasions requiring a Mass-like funerals. This one was a first for my Dad, I think, and a first for me for sure-I’d never seen a child sized coffin in my life, one that hardly required two men to carry, let alone four. I was nearly 12 at the time, and my Dad would have just turned 44- remember that much because it was nearly the end of the school year when this happened. In any case, my Dad, who could be something of a clown, really liked all kids-and knew this boy, so it seemed natural to his parents that he not only officiate the service, but eulogize the lad. Dad-who’d recently been “orphaned”, as I said, and was dealing with other feelings of grief- nearly broke down eulogizing the boy, and barely made it through the service-after which, in sacristy, he broke down and had a good cry-something I’d never seen. I offered what little comfort I could to my father, impotently rubbing the back of his neck, when one of the parishioners came in and offered what I’m sure he thought were some words of comfort, some rah-rah along the lines of Jesus…blah, blah, blah…better place,….blah, blah, blah…..called by Jesus…blah, blah, blah…..you get the idea.
Dad had been a prison chaplain for about four years by then, and regularly socialized with fairly rough fellows-convicts, and he’d also been a Naval chaplain….and he was a New Yorker, so he was no stranger to rough language, and the occasional “*****” or “dammit” emerging from his mouth wasn’t an altogether unusual occurrence. I was surprised, though, when that parishioner left, and Dad removed his glasses, wiped off his face with his handkerchief and muttered, Please, Jesus, I hope I’ve never *****in’ done that to anyone.
I’ve recently had to watch a friend die. Randy Allen was one of those hippies I’ve talked about-a guy who came out to New Mexico as a young man in the 60’s, and wound up staying. He was a roadman in the Native American Church-ran ceremonies for all sorts of people, including natives on the reservations, many of whom thought a great, great deal of him. He passed away from cancer at 74, just this last month. Under the circumstances, I was glad to see him going on his own terms, and that his passing was easy and relatively free of suffering, rather than the long, lingering death I’d watched my father go through 26 years ago. I cannot, of course, say as much to Concha, his widow-it wouldn’t be appropriate, and she surely doesn’t want to hear it, At least his suffering is over,…..He’s in a better place, now. Best to keep my mouth shut, rather than offer such words.
So, half of the problem-what does one say under such circumstances-the loss of a spouse, a parent-a child? Whether sudden or expected, we humans-social beings that we are-want to offer something , some sort of comfort. Fact is, though, that even people who are religious, and truly believe that their loved one is in a better place, have no real comfort from those words-even as they say them themselves. My mother cared for my father through 6 months of dwindling from a great bear of a man down to a mere 90 pounds, and she never once said At least his suffering is over. Nor have I ever heard her say as much about my sister Karyl, dead five years now-in fact, the only thing I have heard her say, as recently as this past Christmas, is I wish Karyl hadn’t died
I can’t even begin to imagine what one might say to the parents of those children in Newtown, CT.
What then, do we say under such circumstances? Well, mostly nothing of course. We can ask, How are you doing? and avoid How are you feeling?, because, well, even with the utmost empathy, we don’t really want to know how they’re feeling- we recoil even at the thought of such a horror-to lose our child, to watch our wife drown and be unable to do anything about it-even with human empathy being what it is, we can scarcely bear contemplating such an eventuality for ourselves, and would rather maintain the illusion that we and our loved ones are going to live forever. We can say how we share their sadness, and how we’ll miss the loved one too, but even those words-welcome and true as they might be, offer little comfort to one who is, surely, sadder for their loss, and going to miss their loved one all the more. Leave it at that, though, and simply be with your friend-offer more substantial help, look in on them once in a while, and leave it at that.
After all,(and this is the ‘define the problem’ part)what is grief?
Grief is an empty place in our lives, where our spouse, our parent, our sister or other loved one, used to be, and the growing realization that no matter what one tries: religion, booze, drugs, food, other people, or activities both reckless and productive-nothing will ever fill that place in our lives-least of all the words of others, however well-intentioned or “truthful” they may be. Nothing will ever take the place of my father, my sister or my wife. In the case of a spouse-one might be as lucky as I am to find another companion who is understanding of that empty place, and can live with my grief as I do…..it may diminish over time, grow to be less and less of a presence in our lives, reduced from a howling echoing cavern of empty longing into, well, something very like the dry socket of a missing tooth, as it has done for me, but, as Rita-that's the wife- can tell you, especially when I wake up screaming, in horror, the name of another woman, dead 20 years this June- it never really goes away, and no words can fill that space, least of all the space left by a child-an absence for which, as I pointed out in the beginning, there are no words to define, let alone fill….
So, as many of you have probably surmised, the new job-and a few other things-have kept me kind of busy, and away from posting on the forum-I've missed it. That doesn’t mean, though, that I haven’t been thinking-or peeping in from time to time. I deliberately refrained from posting on the Newtown shooting-, though, it struck me, under the circumstances, as kind of disrespectful to do so. For those of you who are gun-control advocates, and chose that sad occasion as one in support of your position-shame on you. For those of you who are gun ownership advocates, and chose to use that occasion as one in support of your position-shame on you as well. At some point, I’ll chime in about Newtown and gun control, but for now, I want to talk about something a bit more vague, that I actually know something about, grief.
I am, as some of you know, a widower-at least, I was-I suppose remarrying frees me from that title, though not the grief that accompanies it; my mom is a widow. My father, rather comically, called himself an “orphan,” when his mother passed away in 1972-at the age of 72, when my father was 44, and hardly the image of “orphan.” My mother has also lost a child, and tellingly, unlike orphan, widow, or widowerm there is no word for that particular loss
Usually, I’ll define a problem or situation, then present a solution. In this case, there isn’t really one problem, or one catch-all solution-just some guidelines. I’m also going to take the liberty of offering up half of the problem, some of those guidelines, and then defining what I think to be the root of the problem…
Years and years ago-40 years this summer, I think, a little boy in my neighborhood rushed into his burning house, thinking his sister was still in there. She wasn’t, and the little boy-a boy of about 8 or 9 at the time-was killed in the fire. The boy’s family attended my family’s church, and my father knew him through Cub Scouts-so it was only natural that my father perform the service for the little boy. Being a priest’s son in those days usually meant that I got to assist (as altar boy or acolyte) on weddings, baptisms, and other occasions requiring a Mass-like funerals. This one was a first for my Dad, I think, and a first for me for sure-I’d never seen a child sized coffin in my life, one that hardly required two men to carry, let alone four. I was nearly 12 at the time, and my Dad would have just turned 44- remember that much because it was nearly the end of the school year when this happened. In any case, my Dad, who could be something of a clown, really liked all kids-and knew this boy, so it seemed natural to his parents that he not only officiate the service, but eulogize the lad. Dad-who’d recently been “orphaned”, as I said, and was dealing with other feelings of grief- nearly broke down eulogizing the boy, and barely made it through the service-after which, in sacristy, he broke down and had a good cry-something I’d never seen. I offered what little comfort I could to my father, impotently rubbing the back of his neck, when one of the parishioners came in and offered what I’m sure he thought were some words of comfort, some rah-rah along the lines of Jesus…blah, blah, blah…better place,….blah, blah, blah…..called by Jesus…blah, blah, blah…..you get the idea.
Dad had been a prison chaplain for about four years by then, and regularly socialized with fairly rough fellows-convicts, and he’d also been a Naval chaplain….and he was a New Yorker, so he was no stranger to rough language, and the occasional “*****” or “dammit” emerging from his mouth wasn’t an altogether unusual occurrence. I was surprised, though, when that parishioner left, and Dad removed his glasses, wiped off his face with his handkerchief and muttered, Please, Jesus, I hope I’ve never *****in’ done that to anyone.
I’ve recently had to watch a friend die. Randy Allen was one of those hippies I’ve talked about-a guy who came out to New Mexico as a young man in the 60’s, and wound up staying. He was a roadman in the Native American Church-ran ceremonies for all sorts of people, including natives on the reservations, many of whom thought a great, great deal of him. He passed away from cancer at 74, just this last month. Under the circumstances, I was glad to see him going on his own terms, and that his passing was easy and relatively free of suffering, rather than the long, lingering death I’d watched my father go through 26 years ago. I cannot, of course, say as much to Concha, his widow-it wouldn’t be appropriate, and she surely doesn’t want to hear it, At least his suffering is over,…..He’s in a better place, now. Best to keep my mouth shut, rather than offer such words.
So, half of the problem-what does one say under such circumstances-the loss of a spouse, a parent-a child? Whether sudden or expected, we humans-social beings that we are-want to offer something , some sort of comfort. Fact is, though, that even people who are religious, and truly believe that their loved one is in a better place, have no real comfort from those words-even as they say them themselves. My mother cared for my father through 6 months of dwindling from a great bear of a man down to a mere 90 pounds, and she never once said At least his suffering is over. Nor have I ever heard her say as much about my sister Karyl, dead five years now-in fact, the only thing I have heard her say, as recently as this past Christmas, is I wish Karyl hadn’t died
I can’t even begin to imagine what one might say to the parents of those children in Newtown, CT.
What then, do we say under such circumstances? Well, mostly nothing of course. We can ask, How are you doing? and avoid How are you feeling?, because, well, even with the utmost empathy, we don’t really want to know how they’re feeling- we recoil even at the thought of such a horror-to lose our child, to watch our wife drown and be unable to do anything about it-even with human empathy being what it is, we can scarcely bear contemplating such an eventuality for ourselves, and would rather maintain the illusion that we and our loved ones are going to live forever. We can say how we share their sadness, and how we’ll miss the loved one too, but even those words-welcome and true as they might be, offer little comfort to one who is, surely, sadder for their loss, and going to miss their loved one all the more. Leave it at that, though, and simply be with your friend-offer more substantial help, look in on them once in a while, and leave it at that.
After all,(and this is the ‘define the problem’ part)what is grief?
Grief is an empty place in our lives, where our spouse, our parent, our sister or other loved one, used to be, and the growing realization that no matter what one tries: religion, booze, drugs, food, other people, or activities both reckless and productive-nothing will ever fill that place in our lives-least of all the words of others, however well-intentioned or “truthful” they may be. Nothing will ever take the place of my father, my sister or my wife. In the case of a spouse-one might be as lucky as I am to find another companion who is understanding of that empty place, and can live with my grief as I do…..it may diminish over time, grow to be less and less of a presence in our lives, reduced from a howling echoing cavern of empty longing into, well, something very like the dry socket of a missing tooth, as it has done for me, but, as Rita-that's the wife- can tell you, especially when I wake up screaming, in horror, the name of another woman, dead 20 years this June- it never really goes away, and no words can fill that space, least of all the space left by a child-an absence for which, as I pointed out in the beginning, there are no words to define, let alone fill….
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and cooked a meal for my coworkers: London broil, baked potatoes, string beans, my father’s favorite meal…later, cooking meals became something of a tradition among the operators at Indian Pt., one that led to the company spending thousands of dollars to improve our office space and kitchen:Lisa learned to cook,my fellow plant operators got a nicer more professional space, and a tradition of cooking that carries on a quarrter century later, and rivals (bests!) any firehouse, and all because one day as a child, I got up to my father eating breakfast, asked him where mine was, and followed his answer:Get that potato over there…. told me while Randy was dying that the best way to honor him was to honor our marriage-she’s pretty wise for a dizty blonde, sometimes…:lfao:….. we went to visit Randy and Concha during his last weeks-he’d basically been told by the doctors, when asked what came next, Go home. You’ll get up in the morning and do what you do every day, and then one day you won’t, and that’s just how it happened. I cooked him some liver that day, and we had a good talk-it was a good day for him and for Concha, and for me and Rita as well-he even joked at me, with a twinkle in his eye, that next time I was there, Yeah,we’ll sing.…of course, there was no next time…..it will be hard not to feel Randy-who taught me sooo many songs-sitting next to me in ceremony when I sing those songs, and hard not to think of him(and Anthony Davis, and Henry Gomez, who are both gone and taught both f us) when I teach others those songs, as I surely must.. ….
