The point of this text is that death is not the end. I have been taught this concept since being a baby in a pew at church. I get it. I get that people who love Jesus get to go to Heaven. No matter what happens here on Earth, death shouldn't really have power over us because we will see them again in Heaven and live together forever. I get that. And it's true. And death makes it okay, because we have comfort in knowing that even when a human body gives out, there is a soul that is living on, and when my body gives out one day, my soul will meet theirs and live on too. But what about the now? What about the sting of now...not the comfort of someday? What about the absence here on Earth for the next 60+ years? What about the effects of the absence here on Earth?
Now lets be clear about my role in this grief. Mine is not the intense every day grief of a wife, a mother, or a daughter. It is that of a younger sister, and the grief of someone who made it thirty two years without knowing any real death outside of a grandparent. Clint moved away a decade before he passed, and for that decade I saw him maybe twice a year. We are not the kind of family that takes annual ski trips together. Our family is not the chat-on-the-phone-kind. (Well, maybe except for we all call Mom often, but I usually only call my brothers and my Dad when I have a question.) I've especially become aware of this after living with Terry and watching him chat with his sisters on the phone regularly. But when we do see each other...we are family. We talk, we eat, we catch up, we reminisce, we discuss the future, we help Mom with her latest technology, we watch Dad fall asleep in the chair, we take walks in the woods.
The beginnings of this grief still felt like Clint just lived on the other side of the country and see you at the next holiday. But then the PTSD would kick in, and just kind of come out of nowhere. This felt very much like death had a sting, and its venom would just flare up under the tear ducts without warning. One beautiful evening, I was riding on the back of our scooter to go see the Congress St. bridge bats with Terry and WHAMO, something just entered my brain and took me back to that day at the hospital. I just kept picturing that breathing machine. I lost it and was a sobbing mess. When we got to the bridge, Terry was sweet but I was embarrassed of my crying and assumed everyone thought we were in a couples fight. It took me a whole year and a half to get through an entire "Bless the Lord Oh My Soul" at church without turning into a basket of snot. We sang that at his funeral and there's a lyric that says "and on that day when my strength is fading, the end draws near and my time has come"..............WHAT IN THE WORLD WHY WOULD YOU WRITE THAT FOR PEOPLE TO SING OUT LOUD IN FRONT OF OTHER PEOPLE....goodness gracious.
The absence of the here and now stings more than I expected. I can talk about Clint in the past effortlessly. "Yeah my brother had one of those", "Clint and Wes used to ___", "Clint rebuilt a mustang once". But the here and now is rougher. He never got to meet Terry and I think they would have got along well. They could have talked about investing and gardening and building stuff. So when I talk about him to Terry, he is a ghost he will never shake hands with. Terry and I love a blog called Mr.MoneyMustache that I think Clint might have enjoyed. He missed my wedding, after being so encouraging for me to wait patiently for the right one. He did not dance with me that night. He will never meet my kids if we have any. He will never be at another Christmas, and we do our best to distract the girls from that. He will never pop into Austin the way Wes does. He will never research another product for me and tell me why the one I already bought wasn't a good choice. He will not give his opinion on this sad presidential election, and he will never again read one of my blogs.
Make no mistake. Death has a stinger for those left behind. It probes without permission, but it's there. That's not to say that we cannot move forward, or that we will not make new memories, but the lingering sting of death from someone close is a thing I understand now. It is a sad thing when a grandparent dies, death is sure to sting a person when anyone dies, but when my 93 year old grandpa passed away I couldn't help but think, "Hey Pa you made it! You got to see your KID'S kids grow up. Good job! Where, O death is your victory?". Its different with Clint. He was 46. He had three littles, a Stacey, and us. He was a GOOD dad and husband and a hard worker, not like some deadbeat parents who don't deserve the kids and wives they've been given.
This death experience has opened my eyes to a new perspective I have found valuable in attempting to understand empathy. The two year mark is approaching on May 26th and I guess I just wanted to write down a few feelings. I want to lift my fist in solidarity with those who have lost a loved one, or are about to, or will in the future and say it hurts and its okay! You got stung and its not your fault and you will feel crazy when you are up to your ears in snot sometimes but thats okay here's a tissue and some cake and a pat on the back!!! Go head and cry girl!! You feel all your feelings and wear them all on your sleeve and come sit by me.
