The One About Loss.

 

"When it happens to other people, 

you say how sad, you say poor thing.
When it happens to you, it means everything."

Grief is a funny thing. It takes on a life of it’s own so quickly. One moment your fine, going about your day as normal, and then you get that phone call. That one call that spins your otherwise average day into one of the worse you’ll ever have. I got the first of these calls in August. I was in the process of finding a new place to live and moving again. My husband had just gotten a promotion, I was excited for all the possibilities ahead. Then like a lightning bolt my mom sends the message that changes our family forever. My step dad has a brain tumor. An inoperable, stage four brain tumor. When you hear news like this, your first reaction is “Why?” and then you stare the sky for awhile, expecting it open up and rain down answers for you. No matter how long you stare, or how long you pray, this never occurs.
Then comes all the doctors, medications and treatments. You have this unfailing hope that this will be over soon, just a painful memory. Everyone stays strong, stays positive. You don’t stop fighting, you don’t stop planning. Because the idea that this won’t be over and he won’t beat this is just an absurdity. He has good days and bad days, better days and worse days. But you never give up that hope that just one more day, week, month, year. It’ll all be okay.

Behind that hope, is the rational part of you, the part that says people die from Cancer every day. This tumor can’t be removed. It’s in such a late stage. But you suppress that so deep, cover  it up in that blanket of hope so thick it’s impossible to find when you need it. When he’s admitted to the hospital again and again. When he’s put on ventilators and feeding tubes. This is the time to be hopeful, of course. But this also a time to be rational. To prepare yourself for that absurd possibility. 

Then Grief is there again. He’d been laying in wait, waiting to see which side the coin would land on. Then he’s there full force, and you can’t stop crying and nothing makes sense. Doctors are saying days, maybe weeks. He’s just a shell of his former self. That person you loved is gone. That man with bright blue eyes and a contagious laugh. The one with the funny voices and love of all things Flintstones. The one always searching for the best deal, the one with hands calloused from so many years of hard work. The one that helped you learn to drive, that drove you to three different grocery stores to find that specific flavor of Ben and Jerry’s. The one that have you Heimlich maneuver just hours after meeting you, quite possibility saving your life. That one that built a pool in your backyard. The one who introduced you to the wonders of snowcaps and popcorn. Who banged the table when he ate, the harder he banged, the better you knew it tasted. The one who brought specialty and no-bakes into your life. The one who at one point you thought broke your family, but actually made it bigger; giving you a brother and a sister and now a nephew.

Suddenly, the coin drops. Only, it doesn’t land on one side or the other, it’s standing on edge, teetering, waiting for you to make a choice. A choice no one should ever have to make. A seemingly impossible choice. They tell you he’s brain dead. They tell you there is no real chance of him coming back. Now Grief makes you choose which side of the coin you want. Do you want to keep him hooked up, machines keeping his body alive for days with no way of knowing how much he’s suffering? Or, do you want to let him go, to know for sure he’s no longer in any pain? You search deep within yourself, and you know he wouldn’t want to be this way. To be this weak, this helpless. So you decide. You decide to let him go, to know he’s in a better place. A place with no more pain or suffering.

I was in the middle of writing this post when I got the call that my Step-father had passed away. The last paragraph was written after he died. Rest in peace, Mark.