Grief

Next time you're bored, Google "Grief" and see what kind of images come up.  It may surprise you to see that not all of the images are of people prostrate, bowed low, teary-eyed.

Because the face of grief differs from person to person.

The picture above was ripped off my brother's Facebook. To the casual observer, you see a simple yet beautiful room. 

But to me, something's missing.  

See, this is the place my father lived for the last few months of his life.  The last time I saw this room, there was a hospital bed on the right-hand side, and my father faced the window.

Here is where Dad did just about everything for a little bit.  It's where we as a family laughed and cried. It's where we conspired to dress Dad up in a shirt and tie in order to bring him out for Mom's birthday. It's where I heard Dad's last joke with me. I was explaining to Dad - in French - that the PSW had arrived to take care of him, but that she didn't speak in French.  Without missing a beat, he said - in slightly slurred English - "So I have to speak in English?"

In hindsight, it's really not that funny.  I laughed, though, probably out of amazement that he'd actually been able to catch on - and respond to what I was saying. 

Clever, clever Dad, considering his condition.

By the way, this woman's name was Bernadette, which I thought was just awesome. She was really, really nice, too.

That room is a picture of grief for me.

So is the small card I saw that was held on my classroom whiteboard with magnets. It had been signed by a number of my students.

And hearing someone say the words "My dad ..."

I remember when my brother told me he was gone.  I kept waiting for someone to email or call and say, "Nope. We were wrong. He's breathing again!"

But it's been almost a week, and that hasn't happened.

A co-worker pointed out that it's easier to deal with death when everything and everyone is so far away. 

It is, but it isn't. I don't see things that remind me of him all the time. Places he was at a lot. Places we went to together. The house he lived in all of his married life.  My mother. Those are all on another continent.

But then, no one here knew him, so, though I know I have a lot of listening ears, I feel funny talking about him as much as I want to. And sometimes I'm afraid it's just all going to come out and I'm not going to be able to stop.

And I hate being out of control.  I also hate crying. Gives me such a headache.

That same co-worker asked me Monday morning - the day I came back to work in an attempt to stop wallowing and to get on with life, because that's what you have to do - if I was back to teach. He was asking if I was just there to set things up for a substitute, or if I was going to teach.

"I'm back," I told him "But judging how angry I'm getting at the printer, I'm wondering if that was a good idea...."

It's been a good couple of days at work, though. It's been a good reminder that things are going to go on, I'm going to be alright, and that there's Someone with me.

My filtre is partially gone. I usually end up saying something, then kicking myself for it and apologizing to someone. Sleep is still difficult at times, and there's often a twinge of sadness that I just can't seem to shake. 

And I'm not even thinking about him all the time!!  What gives?

Grief is.... yucky.