Not dumb...sad

 It's easy to feel dumb when you're grieving.

The first few days after my dad died on January 17th of this year, I had compassion on myself. I gave myself grace. I understood my blunders and held them tenderly. 

The day after he died, I lost something dear to me. A couple of years ago, my husband gave me a set of earbuds as a gift. They're beautiful; white and rose-gold, and I have loved them. They were exactly what I needed, though I hadn't thought to want such a thing. I have used them constantly and kept them carefully all this time, because they're perfect, and because that dear man saw a need in my life and filled it with something lovely. And then, suddenly, they were gone. Oh, I had the case for them, but it was bewilderingly empty. We hunted high and low, in every reasonable place, and some that weren't, to no avail. They were simply...gone. 

 

About a week later, I found one on our bedroom floor, oddly damaged. The only explanation I can think of is that it was somehow in the way of the bathroom's sliding door and got bashed...? The other one showed up a couple of days later, in the jumble of my husband's boots in the living room. ...Why?? We have no idea how either of them ended up where they did, especially the one among the boots. It's a pure mystery.

As sad as I was to have half of that dear gift damaged beyond use...I was kind to myself. I knew that my shell-shocked, freshly-daddyless self needed grace and I gave it generously. My sweetheart was also tremendously kind and compassionate over the loss. He had a new set of earbuds he'd gotten for himself and he just gave them to me, very kindly, and helped me keep searching. We both met my brain's floundering with love.

And then...I sort of forgot. 

It's amazing how quickly I forgot.

A few days ago, I made some dry, disparaging remark about people with simple minds, like me, and my husband looked at me and said, with direct, love-infused seriousness, "You are not simple-minded!"

Oh.  

Ohhh. Riiighhht. The grieving thing.

It had only been two weeks, at that point, since I lost my dearly loved, complicated, wonderful dad...and I had already forgotten to be gentle with myself. I had already, without realizing it, fallen into the habit of disparaging any fumbles in my inner world and believing the lie that I'm dumb.

I'm not dumb.

I'm sad.

I'm maybe a little bit in shock.

Because even when death is not a surprise, even if it can be called a mercy...it is still shocking to our hearts and souls.

Grief sort of numbs our minds and short-circuits the functions of our brains, and that is completely normal and absolutely to be expected. It won't last forever, but it may last for a while.

For a while, I'll experience times of this part-frozen, stutter-stepping or simply blank state of mind.

The most important people are, and will be, tenderly kind about it, and very understanding.

I want to give myself the same grace and care that they do.

I'm not dumb.

I'm sad.

I'm not dumb.

I'm sad.

I'm very, very sad.

And that's okay.

New grief on top of old

[This was written less than a week after my dad passed away, on January 17th of this year. This photo, of me with our son Michael and my dad, is both precious and painful to me. It was taken in 2016, two years before we lost Michael, and now...they're both gone.]  

Grief lands differently, when it lands on the barely-healing scars of other grief.

 The healing that has taken place is not necessarily undone, but the fresh hit strikes very tender places. It lands on fragile new skin and deep old bruises and already-frayed nerves.

The fact that I have experienced deep, beautiful healing and learned to rest in God, in real and meaningful ways...does not mean that fresh loss does not make me sad. Every loss, especially big loss, still brings all the genuine and normal waves of heartbreak. 

Even when the path of loss is familiar, we still have to walk it. We don't get a "skip to the end" card, just because we've taken the journey before.

Making the slow, heavy walk of sadness with a fresh loss is not a measure of faith or lack of faith. It is normal and human and healthy. 

It is a "yes, and..." experience, like all grief.

It is, "Yes, I am grateful to know that this loved one is no longer suffering, is with Jesus, is dancing with joy and celebrating with loved ones gone before," and, "I am really sad and my heart hurts and my skin feels fragile and I can hardly tolerate food and sleep is difficult and this is so heavy and hard." 

My dad, brilliant, exuberant, opinionated, endlessly enthusiastic, filled with childlike wonder and curiosity, energetic, knowledgeable, gifted, challenging to live with and so talented in so many ways, has been bed-bound in a nursing home for over five and a half years, with few words and growing confusion. If memory serves me correctly, he went into the nursing home on the first anniversary of our son Michael's death. That was quite a day.  

While we are deeply grateful for the sweet times we've had with Dad in these past few years, and profoundly thankful for the kind, faithful care he received at the Veteran's Home...it was hard for all of us, him most of all.

So when, early last Friday morning, he slipped the bonds of this earth and journeyed to Heaven, it was a mercy, as well as a painful loss. 

How do I feel? I have no idea. I feel numb and I feel every-which-way.