13 October 2003
by Nanci Olesen
I didn’t get it until it happened
to me. This is what my friends who have
lost parents have gone through. I have sent
cards and food to them immediately after,
and then just assumed they were "getting
on with it". My sister tells a story
of one of her friends, whose mom had died
three weeks earlier. This friend came to
my sister's house for a dinner party. My
sister looked over at her at some point
(this was a year before our dad died) and
noticed the grey, strange look on her face.
And my sister thought to herself "Wow.
She’s STILL dealing with her mom's
death..." My sister tells that story
from time to time now and we just shake
our heads in disbelief.
Three weeks is nothing. Three weeks is
when you still hear the hymns from the funeral
in your head everyday and when you still
see the face of the beloved person, dead
in their hospital bed, that face that absent
face gone gone gone, you SEE that face every
time you close your eyes. Then, for me anyway,
that face went away and was replaced by
his face in so many different situations
from our forty some years together.
I have learned to laugh and to tell stories
about him and I have genuinely enjoyed these
stories. I have stood by his photograph
and talked about him with friends, complaining
about the way he irritated me from time
to time. I have thanked people with a wave
of my hand and a hearty voice: "Thanks
SO much for the card. We REALLY appreciated
it!" And I have meant every bit of
it. I've smiled gallantly and said "Yes
it’s hard, but you know we all die.
It's hard not having him around, but I really
learned a lot about death." Then my
friends take it as a cue that I am "getting
on with it" and they look hopefully
at me like I really am who I was and that
we really will do all the things we used
to do.
Then someone invites our family to a little
gathering and I say YES WE'LL BE THERE IT
WILL BE GREAT TO SEE ALL OF YOU on the phone
and then I hang up and pretend like I can't
remember QUITE when the gathering is or
that MAYBE I have some other conflict, like
I must have a meeting at that time or something.
Then I finally just say to my husband, "You
know, I can't go. I really can't. People
will ask me how I am."
Our daughter is doing a project on Shakespeare's
life and she is brainstorming who she could
call to give her some resources and information.
I raise my napkin over my face and sob.
Coulda called DAD, he taught classes on
Shakespeare for about 35 years....
The Minnesota Twins are winning winning
winning and they're going to be in the American
League Playoffs and we have the radio on
every night to hear the game and we're so
excited we feel like calling.... DAD.......
And my husband and I go out to my mom's
place to get the raft out of the water and
snuggle things down for the winter, a ritual
we always do with Mom and ... DAD...
The books say that we will get used to
it and that it's good to cry and that you'll
never be the same and that this is one of
the big lessons of life. Then I read the
books about being a widow and I try to imagine
the depth of pain and change that is sweeping
over my mom each night as she lies in their
bed.
I don't feel like reflecting on it or feeling
blessed because we were so close or saying
insightful things to others about life and
death or singing hymns that remind me of
Dad or hearing his voice on the answering
machine or opening a closet at their house
and seeing all his clothes. I don't feel
like telling my kids that Grandpa loves
them and is happier where he is and that
we believe that there is a beautiful "life"
that he is experiencing now.
I feel like hiding under the bed in the
dark until this icky empty unsettled feeling
goes away or until I hear Dad's familiar
voice shouting "Hallooooo!" as
he comes in the door.
—Nanci Olesen
producer and host, MOMbo: 1990-2007 |
