Tag: grief

1995/2025

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From seventh grade on, I grew up in a small town in Southeastern Ohio called Athens. I could dazzle you with my fifth grade state report knowledge and talk about how Ohio is the 17th state of the union, the first of five in what was known as the Northwest Territories at the time. Athens is so-named because it has a university built on a hill and founded in 1804—Ohio University.  
My dad got a job at the medical school there as a means of affording higher education for his children. It was scary to move somewhere new, leave old friends and familiar spaces, family, community and create something new. Athens has a way, though. It’s special. It embeds in your heart—the space, the people, the humid air. I was fortunate to make life-connections in this town. I am lucky I got to spend time with them these past few days.

While I didn’t know everyone at my 30th reunion, there were folks I didn’t have classes with or who moved in different circles, there were those I’ve treasured since I was a kid and others I’ve grown to love more and more as an adult. My heart is full and I am reminded that we all carry our own pain. Some of my classmates lost parents when they were young. Others, like me, in their 30s and 40s. Some are facing very recent loss or the prospect of aging parents needing more help with chores and care, whose health and momentum are slowing down pointing to heartbreaking inevitabilities. We all are walking this human experience with love, joy, loss, fear, and heartache.
I wish I had understood that better as a teenager. I hurt from loss and heartache then, was anxious and insecure—and I erroneously thought I was the only one, blinded by my own circumstances, desperate to be seen and loved while simultaneously hiding, afraid of being really seen at all. Life, given half the chance, helps remove the blinders, reorients the placement of self, and showcases that not only are we not alone in experiencing the fullness of humanity, it is our ability to share it (both the joy and the burden) that makes it wondrous and bearable. The things that carried me then, that carry me now are kindness and humor, antidotes to poison and ego. I appreciate the sharp wit, the clever word-play, the bright sparkling minds of my peers. That coupled with big hearts for others, for the world and the simplest small gestures of  kindness to others, to me make them a marvel. 

I wish I had more time to see more people to tell them all thank you. I love you. You matter. You made and make life better. I’m sorry I couldn’t squeeze it all in. Thank you to everyone who made this so special. I sit at the Columbus airport with a very full heart.

In Repair

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When I was in the French grad program at Ohio University, my good friend, Amy, loved and listened to John Mayer a lot. She went to his concerts and was a vocal fan. Aside from “Your Body is a Wonderland” (because who wouldn’t want a troubadour with a guitar serenading that?!?!), I really didn’t get the appeal. Until now. I can fully admit I am embracing John Mayer fandom. His music, in this particular season of my life is hitting hard and I love it.

I didn’t write or post anything about Father’s  Day this year. Instead, I went a quieter more somber route. I have been mulling things over, particularly this song https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=rZLbUIa7exE&pp=ygUsZmF0aGVycyBiZSBnb29kIHRvIHlvdXIgZGF1Z2h0ZXJzIGpvaG4gbWF5ZXI%3D as it relates to my dad and me. You see, my dad was magic—straight charisma, charm, and humor. To bask in his sunlight was everything. But he could turn it off like a switch, perhaps as a defense mechanism for his own tender heart and insecurities. His humor danced a razor’s edge of warm teasing to mocking cudgel. In my 20s, more than once or twice, I found myself drawn to men who had similar tendencies and to be near that magic, that sunlight was enough, for a while, enough to tolerate poor behavior, enough to offer far more than I received. These are easy patterns for me to fall into because they’re so familiar.

Remarkably, however, I did not marry a man like my father. Oh sure, Bryan was charming and charismatic, but I never had the fear of him turning that off. And instead of just shining his light, he sought mine and encouraged me in every way he knew to make my light shine brighter. As the lyrics go, “daughters will love like you do.” I see the way Mary loves her friends, family, work, community in like manner to her dad.

I’m not trying to be hurtful to my dad’s memory. He had moments of great introspection and growth. He worked very hard to be a better dad than his own father and succeeded. And he could say I am sorry and did. Nevertheless, the legacy of father-daughter relationships and their effects echo in the hall. I think wanting to be close to that light and feel warmed by it because it feels good is why I am drawn to larger-than-life, charismatic men and have had a history of subsuming my own interests and pride just to be near the light. It is so good to reflect on that and to remember how Bryan sought my light. I think the ending of this song brings those ideas to bear in a really beautiful way. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=7VBex8zbDRs&pp=ygUSam9obiBtYXllciBncmF2aXR5

Finally, when I told my good friend, Amy about my John Mayer late-bloomer discovery, she encouraged me to listen to “In Repair” suggesting it might be an anthem for where I’m at. If you can, go find the lyrics. They’re absolutely spot on. I’m in repair from the consequences of grief and bereavement. I’m in repair in many other ways. My friend, N, calls it “doing the work.” It’s important to recognize what has brought us to this point, extend grace, but acknowledge one’s own responsibility to grow, change, and heal. I am “In Repair” and I’m just fine with that. https://m.youtube.com/watch?v=Bq8SBDv7Wn4&pp=ygUUaW4gcmVwYWlyIGpvaG4gbWF5ZXI%3D

Unicorn

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I’ve likened Bryan to a unicorn, not because he was a mythical, mystical, enchanted beast. He.was.rare. Precious. He preferred to discuss ideas much more than events or people. He could change his mind with well-argued, reasonable, and passionate push-back. He listened actively, almost irritatingly so. He made his space welcome to the vulnerable. He was endlessly curious about the world, the universe, the opinions of others, my opinions. Now I want to make sure you know I’m not deifying the man. Bryan was absolutely human and anyone who was on a bike ride with him when the hangries hit KNOWS just how much so.

I know exactly how lucky I am to have been married to this man. I know what it means to be with someone whose heart and mind are peerless. That’s what makes being single now so incredibly difficult. I long for nothing less than a unicorn and I know that’s improbable and definitely more than a little greedy.

So what then? Admittedly, for the past year and change, I’ve been more of a grief aardvark. But maybe instead of looking for another unicorn, I need to become the unicorn–a better listener, a safe place for the vulnerable, more willing to admit when I’m wrong, able to change my mind when presented with new evidence.

I certainly have some work to do.

Holding It Together

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May 29 is National Paper Clip Day. How do I know this piece of trivia? It’s a little thing I do each day to note some of the seemingly random national holidays to my coworkers. Today, I invite you to celebrate paper clips. I can’t help but think of Clippy offering help with a Word document. Were it so simple, little Clippy…

One of the elements of death we don’t discuss a lot is the paperwork; I call it administrania. I’m nearing the end of some of that paperwork. Yesterday morning and this evening, I’ve been gathering papers together, with paper clips, of course. There they are, holding it all together while I most certainly am not. I am grateful for Bryan’s organization and how easy it has been to find things. I’m also cursing needing to do any of this at all because it underscores the facts. He’s gone. I’m here.

Clippy, could you just do it? Guess not. Okay, I will.

Waves Still Crash

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This morning, as I stood in my kitchen listening to Chris Stapleton serenade me while I drank my coffee, I looked over at our breakfast table. Bryan’s chair has a basket of clean towels I need to fold resting on it. The lyrics “Time keeps tickin’ on by so slow They say it’ll heal you, but I hope it don’t though” punched me in the gut. And then the tears started. The warmth and cadence of Bryan’s voice, talking about everything, his endless curiosity seeking out what I thought, the way his eyes would light up at me like I was the most beautiful woman on earth–they are so astonishing in their absence, his absence. My kitchen, filled with music and memories, is empty without him here.

The rhythm of regular days, working, walking, dancing, singing, tending cats, gardening, cooking, cleaning (not as much as I should), paying bills, discovering new expenses, whack-a-moling the problems and surprises that arise all fill space; they don’t fill his space. And they don’t erase the ache that is now a permanent feature to my heart. My God, I miss him so much.