Five Years After the Farewell

Friends sometimes ask me what it feels like for your father to die. And more specifically, what it feels like for both your parents to die while you are still (relatively) young. Certainly, I was not the only 28-year-old to lose a father, nor was I the only 31-year-old to bury her mother. But I am a minority in this category.

So.

Five years ago today, around 6:20 in the evening, my dad's body finally felt the full effects of the cancer in his brain. He died. I immediately thought how weird this all felt and seemed. Grieving, in my best descriptive term, was . . . weird. It's difficult to define, much like parenthood. No one can explain or prepare you for it; it's unique. The same is true with burying your parents.

In the days and weeks and months after September 5, I wondered how this would all feel in time. And now five years of grieving have come and gone. What's different? What's the same?

I sobbed a lot at first. I still sob.

I thought about him daily. I still do.

I wanted him to know things about me; things like what I'm growing in my garden, publishing successes, and the joy of Anna Zane. Yep, still wish for that--and more. I'd like him to know we remodeled our house, we hope to adopt again, and that I attended the NCAA Final Four AND championship game to watch Kentucky play. Y'all, if he knew, he would've (normally, I'd say "die," but I just don't think it's appropriate here) lost his mind. He loved college sports. So do I.

I yearned for our relationship to be mended. Still a desire of my heart I pray is realized in some way one day.

Grief is uncontrollable. You cannot control it. You can't force it, fast-forward it, or finish it. Grief is not only body-shaking sobs--really rarely this--but a regular mourning of all the little everyday-facets of that person. Putting mayo in my cart at Target and out of nowhere remembering that my Dad was picky about the brand of mayo. And I grieve right there that one endearing fact about him. I'll never laugh or poke fun at him for the mayo snobbery again. I'll never eat my grandmother's chocolate pie again. I'll never watch my mother use her pink brush to comb her hair. I'll never hear Mamaw White say, "Bless its little heart" again. This hurts me. It's not only the absence of the person, but what that absence means.

And I mean for this post to be encouraging. :-)

Because of this: At first, I just wanted this whole grief episode to be o-v-e-r. But I've realized that love for that person--along with the what ifs, wishes, and best ideas--doesn't die with the person. I will be grieving my parents until I'm the one in the casket. However, I've learned that grief becomes part of your life. You cope with it. It alters your perspective a tad--for the better, I think.

I now know another aspect of the pain depravity caused. I know the long-lasting sting of separation. It reminds me of my neediness and frailty. It reminds me only the hope of a Savior can sustain. It reminds me that not all is lost. And that, friends, I can live with.