Grief

A few weeks ago I found out that my favorite aunt has an incurable cancer and her time is coming to a close. My favorite aunt happens to be married to my favorite uncle, Marvin, who is my mom’s older brother. Marvin and Beth have been constants and integral touchstones throughout my life. My favorite Thanksgivings and celebrations took place at their home in east Salt Lake where someone (maybe Aunt Beth?) came up with games for the kids to play in friendly competition. There is, in someone’s possession, an old reel of film of all of us laying on our backs on the floor with a penny on our noses. The objective was to get the penny to fall off our noses while holding our heads still and using nothing but facial expressions. 

I honestly don’t remember a lot of fun of games in their home. I remember the holidays and the celebrations. I remember playing with my cousins in the big backyard until my cousin, Todd, had an asthma attack and we all came inside. I remember the warmth of the kitchen and the clock built into the wall. I remember the step down living room with a grand piano along with an upright. I remember the basement belonged to the kids. 

From these snippets of memory, I remember why my Aunt Beth and Uncle Marvin are my favorite aunt and uncle. I loved the way I felt around them and in their home. I felt love. It was always present and it encompassed all who walked into their domain. There was always a thoughtful and gracious feeling when we went to their house. One year my birthday fell on Thanksgiving and we went to my aunt and uncle’s home for a gathering. Marvin or Beth somehow remembered my birthday and had gotten me a book of poetry. Even in my self absorbed world of teenagerhood I was touched by the thoughtfulness. 

As I grew up and got to know Marvin and Beth better, I realized that I still like them quite a lot and I see their differences and how they complement one another. The perfect example was in my early thirties when Scott and I found ourselves in their home with our adorable and precocious oldest daughter. Alyssa immediately warmed up to Beth and, once downstairs, Alyssa spotted a tea set on a small table with chairs. She quickly set up her pretend tea and invited Aunt Beth to join her. Aunt Beth seemed to magically find water for the “tea” and a few crackers. She sat down with our toddler daughter and they discussed what ladies discuss over high tea. Marvin and I found ourselves in his office where I perused his collection of books. We talked about the extensive research that Robert Massey put into his book about the Romanovs and Anastasia, discussing the medical findings that definitively ruled out the woman claiming to be Anastasia. Meanwhile, Aunt Beth was delighted by the visit and was incredibly gracious about playing her part. I am quite certain that Aunt Beth enjoyed it quite a bit. She mentioned it a couple of times later and extended an open invitation for tea with Alyssa at any time. In fact, Aunt Beth reminded Alyssa of their tea party at her wedding reception a year and half ago. 

Marvin is my mother’s brother. Although she loved all of them, it was clear that she and Marvin had a special bond. They were closer and kept their lives intertwined. My uncle was bereft when my mom died. I was drawn to him at the graveside because he was and is the closest relative to my mom and I needed his grief to blend with mine. I lost my mother. Marvin lost his sister. A sister that he loved very, very much.

In time, I realized that the grace and kindness of Aunt Beth is what I felt in her home all those years. It is foundation of the feeling of love in their home. She has honestly always been an incredibly loving and gracious woman. I remember my mother often speaking fondly of Aunt Beth and using the word “gracious.” In the instance of Aunt Beth, she is both gracious and full of grace. Simple elegance and refinement. Giving free and unmerited love willingly. 

Aunt Beth and my mom share commonality in having elegance and refinement while loving freely and willingly. Uncle Marvin commented tonight that Beth and Anna Lu are a lot alike. 

Jene and Chad and I went to see Beth tonight and tell her goodbye. Todd is in Utah helping hold down the fort (he didn’t have an asthma attack this time) and graciously greeted us and helped us through this difficult farewell. Regardless, I was not prepared for the cascading of grief that found me.

Beth is in a hospital bed in the living room of their condo. She is small and frail. She was alert but weak. She knew us when we greeted her and talked to her but Todd told us that she sleeps most of the time. Sometimes she has to ask him who he is. She has macular degeneration and can’t see faces, anymore. I think she is so weak that she can’t carry the thread of a conversation for long and forgets who is there. Speaking is laborious for her and her voice is very weak. Her answers are short. She can do little more than turn her head. We held her hand, hugged her, kissed her, told her we loved her. Marvin told us they communicate mostly by touch these days. Beth looked towards us but it was clear she didn’t see us. She is dying. She has the look that my mother had a few days before she passed away. The look in her eyes may be partly due to the fact that she is mostly blind but I recognize that look. It’s the unfocused look of someone who may be seeing the superimposed images of this life and the next. Which one is real? 

Marvin is weighed down with grief. My strong, small uncle who has already lost two brothers and three sisters cried as he told us how much he loved my mom then sobbed as he told us how much he loves Aunt Beth. That’s when he related that they are a lot alike. Seeing Aunt Beth like she is brought back the emotional memories that I have been trying so hard to not feel the past year plus. 

I have figurative wall of cupboards where I keep things I don’t want to live in every day. Some are small. Others are big. Most change in size as time goes on. Some cupboards are deeper than I ever imagined. The cupboard where I store the grief for my mom is regular sized from the outside. I keep it locked with many different kinds of locks, glues, and tape. What I know is that the inside of the cupboard is bigger than all the rest. I don’t know where the bottom is. I don’t know where the back is. It contains feelings that encompass me and define me. 

The funny thing with grief is that it can’t really be contained. I also can’t run from it or hide from it. I have tried to tame it when it seeps out but when it seeps out, it washes over me like a tsunami I didn’t see coming. Yet I keep running from it. This is why I refused to buy a new dining set at the end of winter last year. I decided to hide from grief by solving the problem of finding the perfect dining set - the colors I wanted with real wood seats with indentations for the bums. When I couldn’t find it, I tore my current dining set apart and reworked them. I cut out grief from pieces of wood, I ground at it with an angle grinder, I sanded and sanded and SANDED my grief until it was as smooth as the wood for my chair. Then I stained my grief just the right shade and put on a shiny coat. 

Yet my grief was still waiting at the end of my project. So I threw myself into taming it by cutting it, grinding it, sanding it, staining it, and putting a protective coat over it 5 more times to finish my six chair set. 

Yet my grief was still waiting for me. So I sanded the chairs one at a time, painted them, antiqued them, and put on a shiny coat. Times six. Then I did the same thing to the table. I made a frame with my new router. I cut the plexi glass myself. I created a piece of art from a photo and an editing program. I’m trying to learn Excel. I attempted joint compound mudding onto drywall and failed. I continued a professional development program as if my mother hadn't just died and fell behind enough that I withdrew. I am running and running away from my grief so I don’t have to feel it and I don’t have to acknowledge that my mom is gone. If I stay busy and engaged enough, I won't have time to think, feel or process. But I'm tired. I am so, so tired.

And tonight the grief caught up to me, anyway. It washed over me like a wave and encompassed me. Then it receded some before washing over me again. 

I used to think that grief was intense sadness over a loss. I’m beginning to think that I really don’t know what grief is. It is intense sadness, it is hurt, it is anger, it is joy, it is regret, it is gratitude, it is sacred, it is a curse. It is love I didn't know I had. I think the best way to describe grief is that it is the companion I have that fills the hole where my mom was. That hole can’t be filled with pretty words or platitudes. It can’t be filled with plates of food or casseroles. It can’t be filled with hobbies or challenges. Time doesn’t fill it, either. It’s always there. It’s always waiting. 

I used to think I handled my mom’s death well. I moved on and I talk about it with other people. In reality, there is a difference between talking about it and allowing myself to acknowledge it. I fear grief because it acknowledges that my mom is truly gone. My mom died. I watched her die and it was hard. It was really, really hard. It was hard taking care of her but I did not feel relief when she died. I felt the bloom of my new companion; Grief. It walks with me. It holds my hand. It washes over me. It knocks me down. It picks me up. It knocks me out. It exhausts me. It cuts me. It grinds me. It sands me down until I’m smoother. It stains me. It polishes me. It recreates me. It hurts. It heals. It sanctifies. 

Perhaps grief is also a form of grace and I learned about grace from the best. I miss her every day. Her presence made me and defined me. Grief from her loss is refining me. I don't like it all the time but the companionship leaves room for meaningful connections. When grief catches up to me, I succumb to it. It envelops me and I feel the acute loss of a person I love very much. If I spend the time acknowledging the grief, it turns into a friendlier, lovely companion. It is a hug in my heart. I lost my mom. That loss hurts more than words can express. Perhaps grief is a compensatory gift of Grace.