On April 23, my dad made his journey to heaven.
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| St. Patrick's Day, Detroit, 2014 |
He was life.
He was a ray of light in a dark
room,
a joke when words were stuck
somewhere between our hope and reality.
He was patient.
He was family.
He was hope.
He was strong.
He was FAITH.
He is Home.
He is free.
I am in a subgroup, one I never
asked to become a part of: having to witness a parent battle an unknown enemy –
cancer.
There is nothing quite as
frightening as unanswered questions never being put at bay, even after
receiving foreign medical terminology spitted from doctors in white coats. I
became the receiver of bundled statistics falling short of my heart-dropping
question: what will happen to us?
I fearlessly took on the part of
caregiver while my dad’s starlit role was downcast. And yet, in this mixed up
role reversal, we together stumbled upon a beautiful finding in uncomfortable
uncertainty: the human spirit is strong. It doesn’t break but bend. The pain
acts as fuel that allows it to shift and align with a greater purpose.
We were wide-eyed and heartbroken,
rediscovering the world together through a string of tiny, once overlooked
moments that would ultimately end in a time sensitive portal.
The world was upside down, and yet
it made perfect sense. In a twisted lesson, death brought me life. I was
enchanted with the belief that maybe life isn’t about the big moments, but
rather, a million little ones that accumulate to be big: a smile, a kind word,
the gift of being present.
As my dad made his exist from this
world, I am left with advice to those who are left with one less parent:
- My life suddenly became unrelatable to anyone else in my life. It was a scary place to have to sit and wait out the grief.
- I was angry with God. I wanted answers that didn’t exist in this world. Friends, family and strangers genuinely wanted to help. I was reluctant to let them in such a private battle. Let down the walls. Find solace in all of the people who are embracing you with support.
- Many were there for me. Few were not. Surprises ensued both ways.
- Many tried to relate my experience to their own. They knew someone who had cancer, or lost someone they loved. I would caution to remember each story is uniquely our own and comparison is a thief that threatens every story. The most comforting words were the ones that sang of recognition of tragedy and praise for my bravery.
- I admired those who just sat with me. The ones who asked how I was doing and waited patiently for the words to pour from my heart.
- Life on Earth is not eternal. We have someplace far better to go. We sometimes forget that though, don’t we?
- I began to reevaluate my life. Was I wasting time? If I spent every day like today, would I be happy?
- Laughter is the best medicine; a small voice sharing a joke detours the mind from heartache, if only for a momentary mental getaway.
- I learned to accept and recognize every emotion that tap danced into my soul. I couldn’t blame myself for feeling a certain way. Grief can morph into different disguises, latching on to you before you can see it coming. I couldn’t control that, but I could call it out by name.
- I heard people complain about the tiniest of things. At first, I wanted to fight back with words. I (slowly) learned that everyone is fighting his or her own battles. Mine wasn’t worse than anyone else’s, as hard as it is to believe in a tangle of sorrow.
In the deepest of sorrow is a
beautiful transformation of gratitude; for that silver lining in a cloud of
grief, I am reinvented. An in between the words in the last sentence is the
word we all need, hope.
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