So if you've ever watched any Disney movie, like ever, you're familiar with the Dead Parents Trope. Heck, maybe you don't like Disney. Maybe you're a comic book nerd. Uncle Ben, Thomas and Martha Wayne? The idea of a having a Dead parents is so ubiquitous that it is ever-present in the media we consumed as children, and that children even now consume. So if we were introduced to this concept as toddlers watching Ariel insist that she was old enough to make her own decisions (we all know how that turned out), why is it that so very few of these outlets has chosen to show a realistic reaction to grief? (We'll get there). My Disney-crazed self has, for probably more than a decade now, retained the knowledge that you can count on one hand the number of Disney Princesses who have two living parents the entire movie (Sleeping Beauty, Mulan...) So when my Dad died, I knew that I was officially a Princess. But what I didn't know was how any one of them would have handled it. I suppose what we learned from those movies wasn't supposed to be particularly prolific. But the music is good! So basically today I'm just gonna rant about some movie/TV show characters, their experiences with grief, and how I reacted to that before and after. Let's start with Simba. For a few reasons you can guess, and a few you can't. Rewind to June of 1994. I was a little bun in the oven (Shout out to my mom's uterus), and my Dad's Dad--Papa as I never got to refer to him--had just passed away. My family used to say we passed each other. So my Dad takes my older brother to see the movie, thinking oh good! A Disney movie. Lions. Apparently they didn't get the *Inspired by Hamlet* memo. So Mufasa's dying the revine and oops! Dad needs some popcorn stat. 4.5 year old James doesn't care. Rafiki's gonna sing again soon, he thinks nothing of it. This is a story I've known for a long while. Little Simba trying to wake up his Dad was obviously upsetting to *my* Dad because of *his* Dad enough that he spoke of it even twenty years later. Before I knew anything of death or grief, I, like any other Nala-like little girl thought Simba needed to just get his shit together. Face your legacy bro! Here's what I'll say now. I didn't *really* get out of bed for a month after my Dad died, and I wasn't convinced I was the cause of his death. So frankly, Simba can do whatever he needs. That said, I'm glad he saved the prideland. Okay, let's talk about my younger brother's least favorite Disney movie ever. (Any guesses?) It's Frozen. Lord knows why. I think he's wrong, but I digress. [SPOILERS AHEAD in case you haven't seen the the movie and magically don't know what happened but let's be real you're reading this blog post so you know what happens anyway]. So when Anna and Elsa's parents die tragically in a sea storm in the middle of "Do You Wanna Build a Snowman?" (that song is on my Dead Dad Playlist for that reason). They have such different reactions. WHAAAT?! Siblings do that?! They don't have the same feelings all the time about their deceased parents?! Please read my brothers' blogs for their thoughts on the matter...oh wait... But anyway, back to Anna and Elsa. While their personalities may have been different had their parents not, you know, suppressed their eldest daughter's every emotion, it's clear that Anna reaches out for support in grief while Elsa, either by choice, or as a survival instinct insists on being alone. At the time I originally saw the movie I was like yeah dude that sucks. But having been through that, I find it cool that Disney showed even that small bit of dysfunction during grief. Have you had enough Disney? I don't believe in too much Disney, but we'll call it a wrap there. Let's talk about some of my favorite TV Shows! So in Downtown Abbey (yes, we're going there), the two best couples (don't come at my opinion) lose a half. Obviously you see Tom and Mary go through some grief. I think it's interesting how you get to see Tom (and really everyone) right after the fact. Sybil has just died, and he's distraught (duh). But with Lady Mary, you don't see her grief until several months after the fact. Even so, she is a shadow of her formerly-firey self. I remember watching the first time around and being so confused as to why Mary was still so deep in grief six months later. Hey, I just didn't know any better! (what a gift!). But after rewatching, I was constantly thinking Hey! Let her chill! She's grieving her husband! This is not like Robert's dogs, we can't just justify getting a new one next season. And yet...they tried!!! I find it absolutely ridiculous that given two prominent characters in the series both of whom lose their spouse so young, they only *really* try to pair up Mary again and they certainly only succeed with her. Compare that one to reality... Alright and we'll wrap it up with yes--you guessed it--Gilmore Girls. More specifically, the revival Gilmore Girls: A Year in the Life. Now, I of course, relate to this one especially for several reasons. I have always thought of myself as a parallel to Lorelai Gilmore. But it got particularly real last fall. The revival was released just weeks after my own Dad's death, and Edward Hermann--who played Lorelai's father, Richard, had died in the years between the original show and the revival. So of course, Richard's death was a large plot point in the new show. While Lorelai's story about her best memory of her father is already posted on my I Am Not Alone page, I think Emily's grief is so well portrayed both in the way it is written and the way Kelly Bishop plays the role--in no small part because she and Edward were close friends in real life.
So basically, I went a really long way to say that the media portrays grief in some really odd ways. It is something we are told is universal. But how can something that is supposedly so universal almost always illicit ridiculous comments and reactions?! The question of the century folks. Nothing in life in certain but death and taxes, and well all know how to file for our refunds...
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It's a pretty standard Thursday evening when you get a phone call that a crisis has happened. You know how to handle a crisis. Until several hours later that you get an eerily stoic phone call saying that the crisis has turned into a tragedy. Heart attack has become death. So, now what do you do?
We interrupt your programming for this important announcement. Here is my official disclaimer: 1) I know only my personal experience. I know what was and was not helpful to me. I do not pretend to speak on behalf of the entirety of Dead Parents' Club. So as you continue to read, please keep in mind that I am someone who relies and thrives on the presence of other people in my life, both physically with me and generally supportive. 2) This is about to contain some information about me dating (etc.)--if you are my mother, or someone who is a parental-like figure in my life, proceed at your own risk. We will now return to your regularly scheduled programming. Here are the people, the actions, gestures, etc. that helped me the most in the weeks and months immediately following my Dad's death. One of my best friends, called me the day after it happened. She asked if there was anything she could do to help. Obviously, there is no cure for death. And no cure for grief. But in that moment I really wanted Starbucks. So I said yes actually, could you pick up Starbucks and come over and sit with me. She came over, brought coffee drinks for me, my mom, and my aunt. Now I'm not about to sit here and tell you the healing qualities of Starbucks coffee. Here's where I'm going with this. If/when you call and ask if there's anything you can do, you should be willing to do what is asked. Even if it's something as silly as picking up a blended coffee beverage. Even now, I worry what people will think of my reactions in grief, I worry about what people will think of my behaviors and wants. But sometimes what you need in that moment is a cup of coffee, and that is a small thing someone absolutely can do for you. That is a small thing you can absolutely do for someone else! So do the little things without judgement, and ask for the little things without worry. One of my mentors in life called me a few days after. I forget how she started the conversation, but I remember this. "I'm taking you to get coffee." And she did. I know right now you're thinking I really do believe coffee cures grief--no. My mother and I know better. The beauty in this, was once again that she showed up. And she did. And this was just the beginning. She consistently showed up and took actions--sometimes actions I wouldn't have thought to ask for. She got me a gift card to Netflix, so I could watch and unwind; a gift card to Amazon in case I decided I needed something like a book or a little gift or whatever, she wanted to make sure I could treat myself if/when I needed. These actions, and unasked for moments of "I'm going to do this for you" made those first few months bearable because it wasn't just an empty "let me know if you need anything..." offer. On a Tuesday night, I was at school, and I felt particularly lonely. I was trying to get homework done, homework I needed help with, homework my dad could have helped me with. And often times, when I have moments of "I need my Dad", it doesn't matter if 20 people are around me, I feel alone. In that moment, I needed someone who knew my Dad, but also knew me and my Dad. Which is to say, had seen us be us and just got it. So I called up one of my oldest friends in tears and very reluctantly asked her to come over. She drove roughly 40 minutes to get to me, and then took me out to Chipotle. We talked a lot about my Dad, and just how shitty everything was. I am someone who processes out loud, and someone who keeps very few things to herself. I will tell you my entire life story if you really want to know, even if we've just met. The problem with that is, nobody wants to hear about death. Especially the recent death of your Dad. If I ever opened my mouth to talk about it or accidentally let a story slip and then follow it up with the fact that he was now dead, I felt terrible, because it felt like this unbearable burden that I was putting on everyone who would listen. So yes, being fed for the first time in a day and a half was important. And yes, just being with someone was important. But even more than that was that I felt comfortable sharing and talking about my Dad and how much it sucked that he was gone. Be that person for someone! Sit through reasonable discomfort, ask yourself why you're uncomfortable in the first place, and create a safe space for your person to talk about their whatever it is. [This is the part with the dating story so maybe skip this part if you don't wanna know] Dating and grief are a kind of awkward combination (more on that to come). There's really no way to bring up the whole dead Dad thing. And honestly, I don't know that I ever had an idea of what the right reaction was when I shared, until it happened. I was on a first date, and after ice cream and a walk and some conversation, we were kissing in the back of his car, as you do. As we're in the back, my phone started buzzing. Except that then it wouldn't stop. I got a constant stream of phone calls and text messages for a solid 15 minutes before I finally decided I should check and see what was going on. When I realized it was my Mom, I knew I had to call her back, at which point I told the man in front of me this. He gave me a look...a 22 year old doesn't usually *have* to respond to her mother's phone call immediately. In fact, most mother's weren't this persistent. I could tell he was confused about if I had one of *those* mothers and if I was the daughter, practically an adult, but enabling her to run my life none the less. So mostly without thinking, I said "My mom's not a helicopter Mom! She just has PTSD 'cause my Dad died in November and now at the drop of a hat, anyone of us could die so I just have to call her back so she knows I'm alive". At which point, he looked at me for just a moment before reaching out and pulling me in for a hug. And he just held me for a little bit. Then I called my mom, and we enjoyed the rest of our date. Sometimes you don't have to say anything in response. That hug meant more to me than a lot of the words I got from people who had known me for years. Finally, let's talk about professors. I went to a liberal arts college, and my college experience was defined by the relationships I had with my professors. If we're being 100% honest, they're probably the reason I stayed at Denison, but that is another story for another day. After my Dad's passing, I received several e-mails from professors--most of whom I was not at the time in a class with. That being said,I had two professors in particularly whom I wholeheartedly credit for my graduating on time. On a regular basis, I got e-mails saying "Marie, I hope you are okay, stop in and see me so I know you are eating" or "Marie, I know class is a lot for you right now, but please let me know that you are safe". One of these professors even suggested I go to drop-in counseling at school, which lead me to a really wonderful counselor I saw all of the following semester. These women were not going to let me slip through the cracks. I had worked very hard for three years and they knew it, and despite the gravity of my situation, they knew I could make it. And truly, because of them, I did. So in case you haven't noticed, I certainly did not lack support. I had a lot of truly wonderful, supportive people around me and they helped me immensely. That said, some days, some weeks, some months are just hard. And that's fine too. As someone who is grieving, you are allowed to be upset, in whichever form you choose. And as someone supporting someone in grief, you are *NOT* expected to cure grief. It cannot be done! Nobody expects that of you. But what is helpful is to listen, to show up, to actively choose to care, and show that you do, in whatever ways you know how. Honestly, one of the most ridiculous thing anyone should have to worry about in the wake of grief is what other people are thinking about them now. I remember, the week after my Dad died, my Mom and I went to CVS to get panty hose and toilet paper and whatever else you get from CVS and we ran into someone who knew my Dad and I from one extracurricular or another. I made eye contact, tried to turn around the other way, and before I could escape I hear "Oh Marie!" What could she possibly want to say to me...whatever it is I certainly don't want to hear it. So she stops me, and says "I just don't know how you're even out and about, if I was you I know I wouldn't be able to get out of bed". I felt awful, like maybe I wasn't grieving *enough*. How dare I be standing; how dare I not be crying 24/7. It took me a while to figure this one out, for whatever reason, but I didn't owe anyone anything, no particular reaction of lack there of. No state of falling-apart or put-togetherness (is that a word?). Nothing. I was, and am allowed to feel whatever I feel, and do whatever I need to do (with the obvious exception of actions/words that will harm myself or others). One of the places this idea most came into play was at the Memorial Service. On November 11th, 2016, approximately 500 people flooded into my church to grieve my father. That is something I will never forget. I will also never forget shopping for the occasion. My Mom and I went to find dresses, and my constant question was "Mom, is this too much cleavage for a funeral?". I remember wondering if it was bad if I looked good, was it worse if I looked bad? What would Dad want? Definitely not black. What do people expect the daughter to wear at her father's memorial service? Probably black. I didn't really own much black and wasn't planning to start now. The only thing more awkward than spontaneous cleavage at a funeral is spontaneous laughter. You're sitting in the first pew, your father's ashes in front of you, and hundreds of crying people around you when you suddenly remember something he once said to you about how they make baby carrots ("Well Marie, when a Mommy carrot and a Daddy carrot love each other very much..."). Laughter happens in grief; laughter happens at funerals. Both of these things make people uncomfortable, and it is their problem to work through not yours or mine. I still make what I call "Dead Dad Jokes" which are only funny of course to people in Dead Dad's Club, everyone else insists I stop. But if you're not laughing, you're crying, and let's be real, we've done enough crying. My family and I laughing after my Dad's memorial service, at a joke someone behind the camera made.
Note my cleavage-less dress, and the fact that I am wearing two different character shoes as I couldn't find the match to either one Dad,
It's wrestling season again. Paul and I are going to see OSU's home opener tomorrow--I think it should be good, but I'm bummed that NATO is out for a while. Paul went to Hayes' pre-season overnight camp today; he said they have upwards of 50 guys this year! I know you'd be so jazzed about the growth of the program. I already have the state tournament for 2018 on my calendar so I can be sure to request off work(s) that weekend. Wrestling season makes me feel closer to you even now because I *know* where you would be if you were here, and I so rarely get that knowledge of what you would be doing. I wish you could be here for another wrestling season, I don't feel like you taught me everything I need to know yet. But Paul is filling me in on some things, and it's not like I don't know other people to ask. I'm excited to work tables again for the home tournaments, but not sure who's gonna run my clock. Not sure I trust anyone else. What did you do before you had me anyway? Not sure if I ever said thank you for taking me to the state tournament in 2011, but thanks. It really did change my life. I'm so grateful for all the memories I have of us traveling to tournaments and spending our Saturdays throughout the winter in gymnasiums around Ohio. Remember the year I was obsessed with the sea salt and cracked pepper pretzel pieces and you got me a bag every weekend? Anyway, I miss you, as always, and love you, as always. Talk Soon. Love, Marie Sometimes moments of triumph are obvious. When your team scores the winning run in extra innings, when you check your final grades and you did in fact pass everything, when you reach for a diploma, or hear your name called for an award.
But then, there are moments when you stop, just long enough to look at your life and think damn, I did it. I made it through the first year without my dad, and more than just surviving--I have lived. I am doing it. I am suceeding. This subtle moment of acknowledgment is the greatest sense of accomplishment--of triumph that I have ever known. A year ago today was a normal day. Until it wasn’t. I had gone to class, eaten lunch, done some homework, avoided other homework, and I called Lily and was trying on different outfits, trying to pick one for my date the following evening. My phone did that little *boop* sound in my ear to let me know another call was coming in, and when I looked, it was my mother. Now I don’t know how the body, or mind, or spirit, or whatever it is that knows certain phone calls contain bad news knows, but it knew. So with a pit in my stomach already, I answered the phone only to be told that my Dad had had a heart attack and was being taken to Grady, hopefully where they could stabilize him for transport to Riverside. My Aunt and Uncle were on the way to pick me up. We never made it to Riverside--he never made it to Riverside. When we got to Grady, we were greeted by an overly chipper nurse who pointed me in the direction of the worst thing that has ever happened to me.
In the hours that followed, I remember prayers, and hugging in that tiny room in Grady, I remember yelling and crying, I remember being certain I could never leave that room, because how could I walk out into a world where my father no longer existed? I remember being told we needed to eat, getting McDonalds, going home, calling a few people so they knew, and going to bed. In the days that followed, we were met with an onslaught of visitors, some who collapsed into my arms on our front porch seeking comfort in the arms of the girl who had lost the most important person in her life.We were brought and endless supply of grief casseroles and desserts.Family poured into town, meetings at a funeral home took place, and a memorial service happened--one with standing room only in Asbury. In the weeks that followed, I made arrangements with professors, and set up meetings with administrators, so that I could finish what coursework needed to be done to graduate on time. I fended off unknowning, ignorant twenty-somethings and their “I didn’t know him [and I don’t really know you either] but I can’t even imagine what you must be going through”. My first day back on campus, I walked into my acting class where we were practicing our final scenes and watched a scene about a young woman who had just lost her professor dad and was at his memorial, talking to one of his students. No, I did not make this up. I found out that there was a group on campus for students who had experienced loss, and thinking it was a bunch of hooey, I forced myself to go anyway, where I was met with the most welcoming “Hey!” ever, and the feeling that I was not alone. Under the worst circumstances, I met the people who would become my best friends from college. In the months that followed, I fell into a shadow of the woman I was, the woman my Dad had raised me to be. I stopped going to class, I stopped talking to a lot of people, I stopped getting dressed, I stopped getting out of bed. But I received constant, encouraging, supportive e-mails from two professors in particular saying “come see me, I need to know you’re alright; I need to know you are eating”. Here’s where the story gets semi-good. I did get out of bed, I did take my finals, and six months after the worst tragedy I had ever experienced, I graduated with my Bachelors in Chemistry. One month after that I had one job, and another month later I had two.I started writing, I joined a writing group, I started going to open mics, I found comfort in the few twenty-somethings I knew that also knew grief. And now, I am soon-to-be-published. Now, I am getting ready to move out, now I have been promoted at both of my jobs, now I get out of bed, I shower, and I “go get ‘em girlfriend”. Most days. One of my favorite things I’ve read in regards to grief is this, “Grief is a nasty game of feeling the weakest you have ever felt and morphing it into the strongest person you will have to become”, Windgate Lane. I am still morphing. A year ago today, I sent my Dad a Facebook message. I told him that I didn't have any homework and wasn't working in the call room that evening so he should come over to Granville and take me to Olive Garden (since he got me the pasta pass). If you knew my Dad, you can probably guess that he checked with my mom and then they, and my brother James drove over for dinner. We went to the Olive Garden in Heath; our waiter was brand new, and messed up just about everything, making the whole dining experience hilarious. After dinner, my dad dropped me off at Gilpatrick, and my family went home. That was the last time I saw my dad.
The thing about having a "last"of something, without knowing it's the last, is that you replay is over and over again. I don't know the last words I said to him, because I assumed there would be so many more conversations, decades and decades of conversations. I've spent a lot--probably too much--time thinking about what I would say or ask if I could talk to my Dad again. "Are you proud of me? You were the best Dad; except when you missed Legally Blonde because you thought it was a dumb musical; except just kidding you were still the best Dad. Do you really think I can do this? I love you. Are you sure it's okay that I don't take up your research? I'll take care of them, don't worry." But here's the thing, I always come back to this. My Dad and I left nothing unsaid. So I know the answers; I know he knows and knew everything I could possibly think to say. A year later, I am still distraught when I think about the fact that he will never walk me down the aisle or get to be a grandpa. But a year later, I am still comforted by his voice in my head saying "Go get 'em girlfriend!" and "Finish strong!". And because I did not know that the last time was the last time, we had a silly dinner over pasta. |
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May 2018
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