Good Grief

I think most people remember their first experience with lost, whether as a child or an adult. The disappearance of a loved one, no longer there, leaves you touched in a way you can't go back. You aren't the same. There's no scar, but there is scar tissue. A new reality sets in, be it with God, spirit or mortality. You realize your love must travel beyond what you can see, hear and touch. And you understand you must trust that love comes from that undefinable beyond.

I remember when our first dog, a sweet and sassy West Highland terrier named Miss T, was hit by a car. The horror of the accident and then the shock that our 15 lb white dog would no longer run under my feet to greet me when I came downstairs each morning or walk with me down to the mailbox to collect the mail was confusing. And it hurt that I didn't get to say goodbye to her, that she left too soon.

I also remember the light that found her through the tall trees when my family and I stood in the woods of our back yard, surrounding her grave with our tears and tissues. I remember looking around at everyone's shoes, at the bark on the trees beyond where we stood, at the decomposing leaves blanketing the ground. Everything else was in darkness. There was no other light but the one beam touching down on the freshly turned mound of earth before us. I remember I put my hand out to touch it.

I remember the night my dad died. It was two weeks after his 61st birthday. Extended family and friends filled our two story living room, celebrating my father with song and stories for an entire evening. He sat in a velour navy Fila track suit, none of his dress clothes still fit his frail body, on the white sofa taking it all in with a giant grin. His cheeks were flushed and his bald head glowed in the candlelight. I remember him clapping and crying when his friend sat down to play his favorite song, American Pie, on the baby grand piano. While it was a birthday party, we all new it was also a farewell.

I was able to say goodbye the night my dad died, but I don't remember my sisters and I surrounding his body when he took his last breath. He was in my mother's first floor study, lying in a hospital bed assisted by a hospice nurse who monitored his vitals and kept him comfortable with morphine. I remember standing outside the study with my sisters and the the nurse asking us to go in, saying "it's time." My father wasn't talking at this point, but his eyes were open, if far away. I put turned my head to one side and lay my cheek down on his heart and squeezed his bony arms. I told him I loved him and that it was okay to go. The room was dimly lit and smelled of the Rigaud candle my mother loved, with a hint of dampness and decay. After each daughter said their good-byes, we left our father while my mother remained.

I remember the church overflowing. People stood beside the pews and in the way back. I remember all the faceless faces I spoke to when I gave my eulogy, amazed at the number of people who had shown up, amazed I could talk about my father's favorite hat. I remember the green, green grass surrounding his grave and his shiny coffin being lowered into the perfectly dug dark brown earth as my mother sang "Can't Help Loving that Man of Mine." I remember wind blowing the November leaves still holding onto their branches, making their papery rustling sounds, against a thick blue sky. Fall was my father's favorite season.

And now, I remember all the grief I've ever felt, from my first loss to my giant loss, 24 hours after saying goodbye to Cybil. My arms still feel her body letting go with the tranquilizing shot as she lay on her dog bed and I hugged her in the back of our jeep. My ears still hear her soft whining because she can't see where I am. My Cosmic Voyager t-shirt, that I wore yesterday and I'm still wearing, still has her black hairs woven into the cotton.

My mind still seeks to make sense of it all, the sacred grace and the absolute awful, as my body touches down on this grief laden territory that refuses to do anything but break me open. And my heart sends love to the beyond, letting Cybil know she is dearly missed and I'm so happy she is free to run wild, no longer trapped her failing body. And she sends me signs from the Elsewhere letting me know she has made it. 2:22 on the clock, hawks and night herons, dragon flies and hummingbirds, the contrail over Outer Brass at sunset.

For those who have shared their love in this process, I appreciate you. For those who've suffered from loss, and I don't think there's anyone who hasn't, I appreciate you. There is more to this story, but I am tired and the details would only make me more sad. Instead, I will close with a blessing from John O'Donohue who will express all these feels and aches and what to do with them better than I ever could.

May you know that absence is full of tender presence and

that nothing is ever lost or forgotten.

May the absence in your life be full of eternal echo.

May you sense around you the secret Elsewhere which

holds the presences that have left your life.

May you be generous in your embrace of loss.

May the sore well of grief turn into a well of seamless presence.

Rest in peace, dear friend.

St. Sunshine