The Actual date of this entry is July 5, 2009. I changed the date for personal reasons, but still wanted to keep the entry.
For the past 10 days, I have been writing an entry in my head. An entry that detailed all of the offenses of good taste, ritual, etiquette, and common sense that I have witnessed. An entry that spoke the words intended by the dirty glances I shot parents who didn't bother to teach their kids about the decorum of death (Hey you-- while your Beware of my Wiener shirt might be fucking hilarious in other contexts, but right now it seems a little tacky. And you dopes on the trampoline, would you mind bottling your giddy excitement and saving it for some other time? We're trying to mourn here.). An entry that sought to shame the selfishness of those who decided it would be appropriate to show up under the guise of offering support, eat the food donated to the family and then go golfing while C and those he loves teetered on the brink of insanity. An entry that called out those who see this death as an inconvenient interruption to their vacation schedule rather than as the tragedy that it is. An entry that squashed the ridiculous rumors surrounding the circumstances. An entry punishing the media for their insensitivity (hmmm... should we publish a picture of the deceased to honour him or a picture of the farm machinery that killed him so that everyone can have a grotesque visual of how he died? Farm machinery it is!). An entry that illustrated the incredible lack of self-awareness demonstrated by the self-important funeral director who was so concerned with putting old family friends first that he all but completely ignored actual family-- you know-- his son, his daughters, his mother (not that they're as important as nieces by marriage or half-brothers to the step-son). An entry mocking the words of "comfort" offered by those who have no business uttering a word (I'm glad that you think it's "so good to see new life," we're kind of busy thinking about the fact that this "new life" no longer has a grandfather. I'm doubly glad that you take comfort in believing that "God works in mysterious ways." Must be easy to decipher the mystery when you have been allowed to live to see your eighties.). An entry that catalogued the insensitivity of those who saw fit to use C as an errand boy because surely only the widow must be suffering. An entry that articulated all of my anger in an unquestionable and unmistakable way.
I wrote this entry in my head all week because it is so much easier to be angry and indignant at all the crap going on in front of me than it is to stop and gaze into the infinite depths of my family's profound loss, to allow his passing to be real, to accept all there is to accept. He's gone. My husband's father is gone. He is no longer there to chat with, to pass on wisdom regarding farming, politics, or life. He is no longer there to offer or receive support. He is no longer there to tell stories or share jokes. My daughter's grandfather is gone-- the man who was going to keep our family roots buried deep in the earth of this province's farmland, the man who was going to teach her so much during her summer visits, the man who gave her father his voice, his laughter, his values, his passions-- he's never coming back. And there's not a damn thing anyone can do to bring him back. Anger is easy. Sadness is. So. Damn. Hard.
For the past 10 days, I have been writing an entry in my head. An entry that detailed all of the offenses of good taste, ritual, etiquette, and common sense that I have witnessed. An entry that spoke the words intended by the dirty glances I shot parents who didn't bother to teach their kids about the decorum of death (Hey you-- while your Beware of my Wiener shirt might be fucking hilarious in other contexts, but right now it seems a little tacky. And you dopes on the trampoline, would you mind bottling your giddy excitement and saving it for some other time? We're trying to mourn here.). An entry that sought to shame the selfishness of those who decided it would be appropriate to show up under the guise of offering support, eat the food donated to the family and then go golfing while C and those he loves teetered on the brink of insanity. An entry that called out those who see this death as an inconvenient interruption to their vacation schedule rather than as the tragedy that it is. An entry that squashed the ridiculous rumors surrounding the circumstances. An entry punishing the media for their insensitivity (hmmm... should we publish a picture of the deceased to honour him or a picture of the farm machinery that killed him so that everyone can have a grotesque visual of how he died? Farm machinery it is!). An entry that illustrated the incredible lack of self-awareness demonstrated by the self-important funeral director who was so concerned with putting old family friends first that he all but completely ignored actual family-- you know-- his son, his daughters, his mother (not that they're as important as nieces by marriage or half-brothers to the step-son). An entry mocking the words of "comfort" offered by those who have no business uttering a word (I'm glad that you think it's "so good to see new life," we're kind of busy thinking about the fact that this "new life" no longer has a grandfather. I'm doubly glad that you take comfort in believing that "God works in mysterious ways." Must be easy to decipher the mystery when you have been allowed to live to see your eighties.). An entry that catalogued the insensitivity of those who saw fit to use C as an errand boy because surely only the widow must be suffering. An entry that articulated all of my anger in an unquestionable and unmistakable way.
I wrote this entry in my head all week because it is so much easier to be angry and indignant at all the crap going on in front of me than it is to stop and gaze into the infinite depths of my family's profound loss, to allow his passing to be real, to accept all there is to accept. He's gone. My husband's father is gone. He is no longer there to chat with, to pass on wisdom regarding farming, politics, or life. He is no longer there to offer or receive support. He is no longer there to tell stories or share jokes. My daughter's grandfather is gone-- the man who was going to keep our family roots buried deep in the earth of this province's farmland, the man who was going to teach her so much during her summer visits, the man who gave her father his voice, his laughter, his values, his passions-- he's never coming back. And there's not a damn thing anyone can do to bring him back. Anger is easy. Sadness is. So. Damn. Hard.
5 comments:
You are being featured on Five Star Friday - http://www.fivestarfriday.com/2009/07/five-star-fridays-edition-62.html
What a terrible, terrible time you have had. Wishing your family tenderness and peace.
I came through 5 star Friday, not knowing what to expect at the end of the link, and I can only offer my sincerest condolences for your loss. I am a stranger, and I know my words are very little comfort. But they are all I have, and I give them to you with all of my very best wishes for your family during this terrible, horrid time.
Thanks for the mention, Schmutzie (I never got around to commenting when you ask who reads your blog, but I do!). And thank you for your kind words PurestGreen and Never That Easy. My FIL was only 55, not that losing a parent is ever easy, but the sudden and unexpected nature has made it particularly hard for us. It is comforting to know others are thinking of us.
I find grace and gentleness a challenge, and I know that's what Dad would want us to approach this situation with.
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