The rotary wall phone in my college dorm room rang shrilly that day in October, 1975. Dad. My handsome, easygoing cousin, Dad’s sister’s son, age 21, had died in a car accident. Dad was coming to pick me up, to go to the funeral. After he hung up, and the dial tone buzzed, I cried, the receiver still in my hand.
I lay in my bed in my off-campus apartment in December, 1977, and heard sirens. A lot of sirens. I sat up. Were they coming from the college, just up the street? I don’t remember how I found out about the horrific fire in my old dormitory. The dark, cold night is a jumble to me now. As dawn broke, my friends and I walked to campus, to see, to try to make some sense of it. Ten girls, including my roommate of three years, died in the blaze. Some of them jumped to their death. I’m not sure I’ll ever fully process that experience.
Another early morning, another phone call, in January 1980. My father, going to work, had a massive heart attack. He drove his truck right off the road. On the way to the hospital with my mother and sister, I prayed fervently that he was still alive. But he had died instantly, at age 50. I think about him every day. I miss him every day.
Though it may seem incredible, it took me years to realize how much grief my young self had endured in a short amount of time. How did I survive?
Well, I did develop a free-floating anxiety about life in general. I think I was a bit of a hypochondriac for awhile. But here and now, in another century, after I’ve faced grief many more times, I realize I did then what I’m still doing now: I got up in the morning and put one foot in front of the other.
I credit the veteran general practitioner I saw after my father’s death. I had been planning an extended trip to the U.K. But I had this mysterious tingling in my arms that I feared was multiple sclerosis. Of course it wasn’t. He prescribed vitamin B tablets. I asked him nervously if it was safe to take my trip. “I absolutely think you should travel,” he said in his gentle way.
One foot in front of the other.
It can seem like the hardest thing to do when we just want to curl up and sleep, and forget what’s happened to us. But while we should be gentle with ourselves and take a good long nap when needed, the best thing to do is get out there and do something, no matter how badly we feel.
I had a wonderful experience in Europe. I was mugged by Roma children near the Arc de Triomphe on a side trip to Paris, but that gave me a story to tell for the rest of of my life.
Ritual is important too. Greeting a line of people in a funeral home may seem like the last thing mourners want to do, but I have found it comforting. It helped me when I was able to speak personally about both of my parents at their funeral services.
To me, ritual is also helpful when I am not a principal mourner. When Paul’s cousin died recently, we attended a funeral home visitation, a Catholic mass with music in a glorious cathedral and a memorial luncheon. The cousin’s daughter spoke lovingly of her mother at the mass. Death is an inevitable part of life; it makes sense that keeping with tradition helps all who are involved cope.
When our dog, Jack, died suddenly at age eight in 2007, I was devastated. I read the book “When Bad Things Happen to Good People,” by Harold S. Kushner. My big takeaway was to appreciate how others reach out in times of tragedy. Yes, my co-workers had rallied around me with cards and small gifts. I immediately thought back to my father’s death, when I received a card from a woman I’d worked with several years before, and had not been in contact with since. It meant the world to me.
When we had to say goodbye to our 15-year-old dog, Martha, in February, friends were exceptionally supportive. I was overwhelmed, for example, to find our neighbors had left on our porch both a bouquet of flowers and a donation to the Kennebec Valley Humane Society in Martha’s name. (I still can’t bring myself to take down all the sympathy cards we received.)
When I send cards and messages of support, I say, “I hope you can find comfort in knowing others care.” Maybe it sounds trite, but it works for me.
We cannot experience love, the greatest joy in life, without also experiencing loss, and the grief that follows. Though our lives must go on, though we must move forward, this sometimes seems like a betrayal. If we are not miserable, does it mean we’ve left our loved one behind?
After a long life of grieving (for I still mourn all those I have lost), I say no. We carry them with us in our hearts forever, as we put one foot in front of the other, with a little help from our friends.
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