Grief? What's that? Part ONE

On Mother's Day of 1978 my daddy died. He had been sick on and off for sometime. My parents had been divorced since I was around 5 years old. I rarely saw my dad. His death however, took me by storm.

I remember so clearly that day and how my mother chose to tell me. She sent me to HER room and told me to wait quietly there. Of course, at 17, I thought I was in trouble. My mind was a flurry trying to backtrack my last few days and what I could have possibly done. We had just gotten home from my grandparent's home in Charlotte and I hadn't gotten into trouble there. I hadn't been disrespectful or mouthy. Neither of those are good character traits if you're a true GRIT (Girl Raised In The South). So I sat. And I waited for what felt like my lifetime. Suddenly the door opened and Mom walked in with a stoic yet somber look on her face.

"Are you happy with your life?" she bellowed.

What was that supposed to mean to a seventeen year old senior in high school? I was, after all, happy to be alive, to be boy crazy and ready to graduate and  embrace University. My reply was short and sweet.

 "Yes Ma'am".

"Laurayne, your daddy died this morning" she said in a soft yet strong voice.

I have to admit, at first I thought, "WHO?" Then it hit me. By this time tears rolled down her cheeks and fell onto her flowered shirt. As I sat there and watched her cry, I wondered why I was not as affected as she was. I mean, after all, it was MY daddy. She was married to my step-father and had a new family.

As Daddy's funeral drew near, the thought reveled in my mind that I was not sad. I dressed and headed off to pay tribute to a man I really never knew. He was biologically my father, but had never been my "Daddy." I knew his father, my grandaddy so much more. I knew his sisters and his aunts, but I didn't know HIM.

Fast forward to Valentine's Day 1998. I am standing at the kitchen sink rinsing dishes and staring out into the blackness of a cold South Carolina evening. My husband is deployed and I have have three kids underfoot. Not a recipe for a romantic Valentine's Day night for sure! My mind begins to entangle the thoughts of what Valentine's Day should really be. You know, those Hallmark commercial Valentine's Days. I should be seeing my Prince Charming walk through the door, envelope me in his arms and douse me in roses and chocolates. My, was I far from that thought.

As I stood there, tears formed in my eyes and rolled down my cheeks. My mind remembered my daddy. Suddenly it was as if he was there beside me. I remembered his gentleness and kindness. I remembered the weekends when he would play with me and take me to the park. I remembered Angelo's and the malted milkshakes we shared. I remembered sucking the foam off his beer and eating boiled peanuts. I remembered the love I had for him and I remembered the FIRST man who loved me. I was lost in grief for the first time. I was engulfed by the absence I felt and the love I had tucked away for that special man...my DADDY.

I had a very similar experience in 2006. After having taken care of Bob for two years while we he battled cancer, I was tired exhausted. For nearly six months I spent every day and many nights by his side in the hospital. As hard as he fought, at times I felt as though I fought harder. The minute by minute decisions were constant and gut wrenching. Seeing him in pain and knowing that he would genuinely rather be in his shoes than have us suffer his pain, was, awe inspiring but humbling. It took it's toll on my body and eventually sucked the energy right out of me.

I remember the morning very vividly, that the doctor called with the news of his passing. It was the first time I had left him in 32 days. As I kissed him goodnight the night before, I had that sinking feeling. Something just told me this could be the last kiss, but yet I knew his spitfire determination and I wanted to believe that he wouldn't "go" without telling our kids goodbye. Yet he did.

After speaking with the doctor, I hung up the phone and quite frankly, a rush of calm enveloped me. Though I was painfully aware that he was with God and I was now ALONE, I was somehow calmed knowing that the utter exhaustion was over and the next phase could begin.

I made the appropriate phone calls, first to his mom and dad and then to the funeral home and our parish priest. Then, I sat down and cried. I remember thinking "what will I tell the kids?" I didn't want it to be a repeat of how my mother had given me the news of my dad's death. I wanted it to be soft and gentle and pretty. So, after a spell of tears and a flood of memories, I trudged up the stairs and into my room where all three were in my bed asleep. I don't remember exactly what my words were as I had always had a way with telling the story with my facial expressions long before I opened my mouth. I think they were along the lines of "do you know who that was on the phone?" and with that, they knew.

The next few days and weeks were a whirlwind of not only emotion, but also errands and meetings and general busy-ness. I kept myself and the kids busy and we managed to quickly get back into the swing of things. Having been a military family, i think we just imagined that daddy was on a REALLY long deployment. That was our coping mechanism. And it worked.

I've never really allowed myself time to grieve. I've cried. I've laughed. I've remembered the good...and the bad...and the ugly. I've shouted at him from time to time and I've cried tears of loss. but I have never really, fully mourned and released and allowed the tsunami rush over me. Partly because I have been busy, partly because I have kids and for whatever reason, I feel like when you have kids, it's kids first, me later.

Later...later...will there be a later...?  I embrace my life. I embrace my past, my present and my future. Perhaps the time will come to let go. Perhpas that time will never come.  But right now, I am truly in my Happy Place. And here and now isn't the time or the place.