Letter to a Friend

  What do you do when someone that you know is hurting because they have recently lost a loved one? How can you help them through their pain? Can you help them?

I know the pain of losing a parent and because of my experience I feel deeply moved whenever I hear of someone who has gone through a similar loss. Even if I don’t know that person particularly well.

I can’t help but want to lend a hand, or an ear.

I don’t know if it is ‘wrong’ to do so, but I can’t stand to see someone in pain and therefore must write this letter to a ‘friend’.

Dear (name intentionally left blank to protect the identity of said person),

It was GREAT to see you the other day. You’ve been on my mind A LOT – I often wonder how you are doing.

I’ve wanted to write you a letter for some time now, but I’ve hesitated for fear of crossing any boundaries that you might have. The last thing that I want to do is upset you or make you uncomfortable. That is not my intention by any means.

Please know that I am writing to you sincerely from the bottom of my heart.

The main reason that I’ve wanted to write to you is because I understand – at least to a certain degree – what it is like to lose a parent. When I was 17 my Dad passed away – I was standing by his side when he took in his last breath. That was 8 years ago, but in many ways it still feels like yesterday. I still cry hard at times.

Because no 2 people are exactly the same it makes sense that we all grieve differently. I have no idea what your ‘style’ is, but I know that for me there are times when all I want to do is share stories/memories about my Dad. Sometimes it is helpful for me to talk about him with others.

You’ve always struck me as the type of person who has a million and 95 friends, so I’m sure that you’ve got any and all of the support that you man need and/or want. Nonetheless, having been in a somewhat similar position myself, I want to offer, I want to offer you my ears if you ever feel like talking or reminiscing.

I understand that aside from our interactions at (place of employment) we really don’t know each other all that well, but for me there are certain people who instantly warm my heart and make an impact – you are certainly one of those people. So while as far as details go we may not know each other well, I feel that we are in some way a part of the same family.

I want you to know that I am here for you and I want you to know that I truly mean that.

Do not hesitate to call, email and/or write. And, on the other hand, know that I will not be offended in any way, shape or form if you do not contact me. I myself am a very private person and can understand the need and desire for space.

All in all I wish you the BEST in EVERYTHING. You are such a warm person and a joy to see. Know that you radiate beauty into the lives of those around you.

If I do not hear from you I am sure that I will eventually bump into you in the street and I look forward to that. As my Dad used to always say, “I love to see you come, hate to see you go.”

Take care and know that you are thought of often.

Confession of a Morbid Obsession

  Death. Not just any death, but MY death.

It seems like it’s always on my mind.

It’s as if there is a grim reaper constantly lurking over my left shoulder, like Don Juan suggested. I mean let’s face it, it’s something that will happen to every living being in existence.

I’ve heard it said before that the only certainties in life are death and taxes. I disagree.

I would say that there is only one single certainty in this life, and that is death.

What haunts me the most is wondering where I will go when I die. Somewhere? Anywhere? Nowhere?

Probably NOWHERE. But where is that exactly?

It doesn’t make sense to me, this dying. How is it possible to be HERE one moment and then to just disappear the next? What happens to who I am? Will I have some sort of a consciousness? Will I retain any memory at all of this life that I live now? Will I see my Dad again?

I don’t know the answer to any of these questions and I don’t think that anyone in the world does. This frustrates me. How can I be expected to go on smiling every day like everything is okay all the while pretending that death is not around the corner. The fact is that this body that I inhabit will one day STOP living. STOP breathing. What then? Is that the end? Will I ever know life again as I know it now?

It’s hard not to let a day pass without thinking about my mortality. In fact I don’t think that I’ve ever been able to do that. I constantly wonder about the details of my death. How will I go? How long do I have? Will it be painful?

If I could pick the way that I would die I would choose to pass in my sleep. Or, to make things a little more interesting and unusual, perhaps I would pick freezing to death. I don’t think that it would be too painful, more so uncomfortable. I’d kind of slowly disappear into nothing – or something, depending on how you look at it…

A part of me feels like things will work out, that it (whatever it is) will all make sense one day and that I’ll be okay in the end, but without knowing for certain I can’t help but to fear, doubt and worry.

I want to be as certain as I am that I will die one day, as I am about where ‘I’ will go when I’m dead.

Is that possible?

The Memory Box

  I decided to do some re-organizing last night.

You know how it is. You let things go for quite some time and before you know it there are a stack of papers sitting on your desk that need to be filed away somewhere.

You try your hardest to ignore the mounting tasks that need to be completed and for a while that works just fine.

But sooner or later you can’t stand to look at the mess.

Something needs to be done.

When the motivation to clean up hits me, I have to take it immediately, or I might lose it for another few months.

Last night it hit me.

While cleaning up and putting things away, I came across my “memory box”.

The term ‘memory tub’ would probably be more appropriate. It’s a HUGE plastic Tupperware container that I could almost take a bath in if I wanted to. I could definitely give both of my cats a wash in it at the same time – but there’s no way that would ever happen.

Anyway, I decided to open it up and revisit memory lane.

There are many things in that box.

All have meaning.

Most are from childhood or my teen years.

Only a few things are from the present.

The things that mean that most to me are the things that were my Dads – or things that remind me of him.

I treasure those items more than anything I own.

Last night I came across his wedding ring, which I had (oddly enough) forgotten that I had. I put it on immediately. It fits on my index finger and I’m going to wear it from now on.

Perhaps I wasn’t ready for it until now.

He’s been gone from my life for 8 long years, yet the pain of his loss hasn’t eased much.

I still cry. Hard. Especially when I open up that memory box and see the beautiful framed picture of him pre-sickness.

He didn’t deserve to die. It’s not fair that he was taken away.

He was SO young – 37. Yet he had lived a life that was probably more full than many people twice his age.

But that doesn’t mean that he was ready to go, or that I was ready to have him leave.

I only hope that he knew how much I love him.

I wish that I had told him more often.

I wish that I had listened to his stories with more attention.

I wish that I remembered more about him.

I was 17 when he died and in a lot of ways I think that I’ve remained stuck there, trapped in that time of my life, motionless.

Today nothing is the way I pictured it would be.

He’s supposed to be here.

I want him to be here.

I want him to walk me down the aisle.

I want him to give me advice about everything from cars to movies.

Last night I stared at pictures of my childhood for an incredibly long time. I pretended that if I thought about him hard enough and stared at those pictures long enough that I would be able to be transported back in time. To a place where he’s alive, healthy and well. To a time where I am happy and safe.

If I could somehow send a message to the younger me I would say, “Cherish your Dad NOW! Spend all the time that you can with him and let him know how much you love him! Do it while you can!”

I feel like if I had paid more attention to him and been less consumed by teenage stupidity that perhaps I could have saved him. Like my love may have been able to heal him.

With him gone life feels cold and empty.

Nobody loves me like he did and nobody could ever take his place.

He loved me unconditionally.

He wasn’t my blood, yet to him I was more than blood.

Now he’s dead and there’s nobody to look out for me or to guide me.

I’m all alone. And I don’t know where to go or what to do.

What hurts the most is that I seem to be the only one who cares that he’s gone.

It makes me angry that people can’t remember the good things about people once they have passed. Everyone is so quick to bring up the negative shit. It’s not fair. Everyone has flaws, why can’t we remember the good parts? There was so much good.

It seems like the people who remember him only remember the negative and everyone else pretends that he never existed.

But I can’t do that.

I won’t let him die.

Not again.

I already lost him once.

I will keep him alive and well in my heart and thoughts for as long as I live.

Although memories are certainly no substitute for the real thing.

I so badly wish that I could see him face to face and have a conversation with him. Now that I’m older there would be so many more things to talk about with him. There are so moments that we never got to have.

I feel robbed.

I searched his Bible (one of the only remaining things of his) frantically last night, trying to find something, anything. Some clue as to what he was thinking at the time. All I found were a few small handwritten words “all have sinned” scribbled in the very back of the book.

I don’t know what I was hoping for.

I’ve searched that Bible before – many times. In fact I search it every time that I revisit my memory box.

I always hope that perhaps there was something I missed the last time. Some sort of message from him to me. A message that lets me know that he’s okay and that he knows how much I love him.

I miss you Dad.