Things hold very little hope for getting better.
This is a truth that I seem unable to hold in my head for very long. I keep thinking that I understand it, that I’ve accepted it. Soon the “understanding it” subsides. I experience some kind of convenient amnesia and go back to not really getting it, not being able to accept the grim reality my dad faces, and us along with him.
There’s a possibility that I’m in some stage of denial, but that sounds so cliché I have a hard time thinking it could be real. And yet all of a sudden something pops for no particular reason and it all floods the tubes at once. My boat begins to sink in powerlessness and sadness, holding all at once the emotions I’d kept at bay without even trying.
I’m starting to realize I may not be equipped to handle this on my own.
While I’ve never received any counseling past the pre-marital counseling my husband and I did before our wedding (and does that really count? I’m not sure), I’m not at all opposed to it. I have a feeling there are coping strategies that could be helpful when dealing with loss and grief. For a while now, my reaction to things seems to either go from an emotional flat-line to all feelings at once as if I’m trying to drink from a proverbial fire hose. There ought to be some middle ground in this, some balanced space of holding the possibility of permanent separation alongside an appreciation of the time we all still have together.
http://mrg.bz/ptSqzA
Ought to, schm-ought to. The bare truth is that my dad’s not getting better, and there’s a very real possibility — a very strong probability — that he’s going to leave us. See? Even now I can’t speak the harsh truth because it’s too much to admit. It’s too big, too scary, too terrible. It’s something I only admit in the dark, when no one else is listening, when I can’t convince my brain to focus on anything else. Is this what it’s like for everyone? Would it make me feel better or worse to know it isn’t like this for other people?
Does it make it worse that I’m here to witness the slow ebbing away of him? Or would it be worse to experience the jarring juxtaposition of him healthy one visit, and then a few months later discover him weak, thin and slow? Who freaking cares which is worse? This is what the situation is. This is the one I’m a part of, and contrasting it with anything else doesn’t make it any less or any more. It just is.
Instagram: tclmn
But it isn’t just. It isn’t fair. It isn’t right.
(I’ll have more on that idea soon, on the shitty deal and non-nepotism of God instead of playing favorites. That’s good news if you’re the one on the outs, but it’s a lot harder to bear if you’ve been the diligent, dedicated son all these years and not the prodigal. A little party on your behalf would be nice, a little cut to the front of the line, so to speak, a little preferential treatment.)
For now, the irritating pendulum swings between being numb and being overcome, with a possibly unhealthy emphasis on numbness, are in my line of sight, and I figure I should try to have some idea of how to handle what may come. Even if I don’t really want to know what’s going to come. Even if I am dreading it even as I approach the subject with robotic matter-of-factness. That right there should be my indicator of a need for facing the thing head on, but I can really only look at it with my peripheral vision as I charge ahead, busily avoiding people and topics that could lead to an uncorking of the anger, fear and sorrow that licks at my heels.
Have I mentioned cancer sucks?
If you’ve got resources that have helped you through grief or loss, don’t keep ’em to yourself. I don’t really know where to start, and could use some recommendations.
This is the valley, the road we all walk at some point in life. Know you do not walk it alone. Feel everything. Pray. Cry. Eat a bag of Cheetos. You are held.
Tanya, I don’t have resources at the moment, but I just wanted you to know that I will be thinking about you and praying during this hard time. What you are going through is very hard, but even though it may seem like you’re all alone, you aren’t really. I lost my dad over 20 years ago. I was not living near my parents at the time, and after he was in the hospital for a couple of weeks and things didn’t look good, I was able to go to be with him. The night I got there, even though after visiting hours, they let me in to see him. He reached up to touch my hair and smiled. But things continued to go downhill and it was hard to see him suffer. I still miss him very much. What got me through was how so many people poured out their love on us in many ways, and knowing that I will see him again one day. I think, too, that I must have just kind of steeled myself for it. The grieving process takes time and I think it starts before the actual death of the loved one. You will be in my prayers. I won’t promise to pray everyday, because if I do I’ll probably fail, but I will try. Hugs <3
Hi, Kelly sent me here.
A friend of mine guest posted on my blog a while back about her dad dying. it might help you, and she had a list of books that helped her.
http://itsalmostnaptime.blogspot.com/2008/11/when-friend-is-grieving-loss-of-parent.html
I will definitely check out the list. At least it feels like DOING something, rather than being constantly in reaction mode. Thanks for taking the time to share it here.
T, this life is all inside out and backwards. Keep putting metaphors to it because it defies definition. You know a lot about my struggles. I have decided to end strong just like your Dad. And I have stared at my ending more than most people because of illness, pain and depression. It must hurt more than I can imagine to be a basically happy person and hit something this big all at once. Depression is a knife-fight. Death is a beginning. Being broken and finishing well are also inside-out. God hates it more than anyone and don’t let anyone tell you God sent this just so you would grow! That’s smarmy, if you read me. But grow you shall, and that is what he wants. Take that sorrow, that depression, that grief, that denial and truly feel it, then pick it up by the collar and say, “You don’t own me. Not in my house. Not today.” We were made for better things. Hold out for them.
TC:
There is no right or wrong way of doing “grief”. Everyone’s process is different, yet similar in the fact that the pain and suffering is real. How this is expressed is different.
You’ve got “grief” and “anticipatory grief” going on….which is complicated. Grief is defined as “intense, emotional suffering”, and that is why a person tends to figure out ways to deny it because it is HARD and tough to go through. But in it, you will experience powerfully Gods provision and love, if you will allow Him to be with you. It is much better to go through it because it impacts you either way, at some time. Your body can absorb a lot of it, but it can damage your body significantly in time, if not processed.
I think what you are doing with your blog, thru writing is one of the best ways to process your grief….being as honest as you can, and writing as often as you can. Tears are a real part of grief as well….they release a toxin that can only be released through crying and letting the tears come. If you don’t allow the tears, you end up with a bad head-ache, and you don’t need that.
Doing a “gratitude book” or “board” with post a notes, describing the many things you are grateful for that you experienced with your dad, or that he did for you, or any type of gratefulness related to your relationship with dad – and the board of book can be something everyone adds to every time you/they are with dad, or thinking of him (you can call mom and she can put the post-it on the board for you).
This exercise helps you to focus your grief but also to express your gratitude for him while he is still with you all, and to bring balance to the reality of your pain and gratitude…. (have a board for family, and a board for friends to put post-a-notes on)
If possible, try not to walk on “egg shells” with him, and talk about the things that are important to you with him, or questions you have always wanted to ask him, ask them now. This is powerful for him to be able to give to you, and for you to receive from him things you have always wondered.
I will end for now T… I hope this is helpful for you…and know that Tim and I continue to hold you in our prayers, and your dad and mom – asking God for a miracle of His grace to be extended to you all according to His will. You are loved…
Janet
Tanya,
We met years ago. I am an old friend of your dad’s–and have his old job at Youth Leadership. I just wanted to tell you how sorry I am to hear this news, and to read of your journey with grief. It is a painful and lonely road.
Words do not cover it–so I will not try to say anything to “make it better.” The pain of this journey is yours alone…and it is bitter. Yes, I have watched my parents wither away in front of me, but your grief is unique. I have lost too many friends to cancer and agree with you that it sucks.
A simple resource that may speak into your journey–not with solutions, but with an ability to be honest about the combination of pain and hope in a faith perspective. It offers no easy answers, but is a personal journey of a friend of mine.
The book is called “Hoping for More” by Deanna Thompson.
Please know that you have an ally in your hatred of cancer–and a love for the incredible man that you call Dad. I call him friend…and to know that his time here is short causes me incredible sadness. We had a Youth Leadership reunion a few months ago and it was so good to see his smile, hear his optimism and faith, and witness his impact on a room.
May you find an unseen strength for this chapter of your story. Peace, Tiger McLuen
Tanya-
I am just so very very sorry. So so sorry. We were all away this past weekend so we could not attend your dad’s service, and couldn’t give you all a hug. But, we thought of you much.
Since you asked, I can add that a children’s book called Tear Soup has been wonderful for me. It’s not really for children, at least the kind of kids that are little and young. It’s for all of us. I highly recommend it.
You and your family are being covered in prayer. I sure hope you sense that.
With hugs and love-
Megan (Bergman) Hughes
Your choices of images speak additional volumes to me. In another context, a photo of an empty old bright yellow teeter-totter seat up in the air could be charming, maybe even full of anticipation, excitement. But in the context of your father’s illness, it becomes an empty seat, a reflection of dreams never to be realized. It hit me like a ton of bricks. Tears flow. Catharsis. I’m sorry for what you have been through and will have to go through. I appreciate your raw, honest writing.