I forget how much I am actually carrying, until I list it out.
It's a lot.
Top of the list: the loss of our child. Our son Michael died four years ago by suicide. I carry all of the intense grief and trauma that surrounds that.
Also on the list, though I, in the way of my family, am usually matter-of-fact about it: my dad lying in a nursing home bed. My over-the-top, wildly energetic, exhaustingly enthusiastic dad, with his numerous interests and ceaseless font of words and ideas... lies quietly in a nursing home bed. On my visits, if he puts a couple of words together, it's a delightful moment and rare treat. The first time I visited him there, I made it through our time together, then broke down in the hallway as I left. It is so hard to see this vibrant man so quiet and still. Also...we are so grateful to still have him with us, and our times visiting him are sweet. But...because of the magnitude of my grief for our son, my deep sadness over my dad's aging process gets sidelined.
Except for moments like just happened, when the simplest thing can blindside me.
I was scrolling Instagram, avoiding the many things that I need and want to be getting done. I watched this brief, sweet video of a young woman giving her grandpa a coffee mug that says, "You put the great in Grandpa," to let him know she's having her first baby.
I was smiling, and then the next moment I was crying. Sobbing, my heart breaking....for yet another moment our family will never get to have with my dad. Not the grandpa, surprised and delighted, excitedly hugging his grand-girl and saying how happy he is for her, as the whole family is gathered, celebrating this joyous moment together.
We don't get to have that. Not with my dad.
My dad will never sing to his great-grandchildren as he did to his little girls. He will not take them fishing or camping, teach them how to tell a sparrow from a starling, or show them tiny wildflowers in the grass. He won't take them for hikes like he did with my children, or tell them stories from his interesting life. All of that....it's just...gone.
And with all of the things I've processed these past ten years, as his health first limited him to nearby towns, and then his town, and then his home, and now a bed in a nursing home...I had never thought of this...that someday I may have grandchildren, and if he's still here, they will only know him as a quiet, sometimes foggy man, lying in bed with Westerns playing on a muted TV. It's some time since he was able to play an active role in my own kids' lives, and now I'm floored by the fact that he will have almost no part at all, if any, in the lives of their children. And that is breaking my heart.
Grief is like a hard stone, obsidian maybe, with many facets and sharp edges. You may be all-too-familiar with its shape and the way it hurts, but then it turns and a new edge cuts you in a fresh place. Every new cut hurts. Every fresh way you realize what is lost, whether through death or through changes brought on by age or circumstances, hurts all over again.
Today, a sweet little Instagram post ripped my heart out. Grief is like that.
It is exactly like that. Sneaky. Hiding in unexpected places.
