Grief-Filled Crevices
“Our silence about grief serves no one. We can’t heal if we can’t grieve; we can’t forgive if we can’t grieve. We run from grief because loss scares us, yet our hearts reach toward grief because the broken parts want to mend.”
— Brene Brown
Our neighbor passed away three weeks ago. She was truly a delight to be around and brought so much joy to those around her. Her name, fittingly, was Joyce. Only in her illness did I meet her husband and two sweet (grown) children. As I walked past their house the other day, I saw the mailman drive by. I thought about how the three of them would be confronted with mail arriving with Joyce’s name on it, reminded that she is not here to accept it. Then, a day would come when no more mail would arrive and they would subtly notice the lack of it meant she was truly gone. This is just one of the ways that grief manifests itself.
We as onlookers are more aware of it in the big obvious canyon of grief moments. When a bride walks down the aisle without her father, we are alerted to the sadness that she is likely feeling in that moment even as she is filled with joy at seeing her future spouse waiting for her. If you have not experienced loss or don’t realize that a neighbor has, you may miss the way grief also fills the crevice moments, the daily ones in between the big ones. The mailman only symbolizes the friendly face bringing you your packages (and bills). When a guest at a wedding (instead of the bride) is tearing up during the father/daughter dance, it may go unnoticed.
I remember attending my first wedding after my dad’s death (I was actually working it as part of the catering staff). The dad in said wedding was like a surrogate father to me, as he was my boss and the patriarch of the family-owned Italian restaurant where I had worked since I was 15 years old. I was so overcome by my emotions when the time for the daddy/daughter dance arrived. I tried to hide my reaction, because that day was not about me, and I did not want the attention. I was trying to be professional as well as respectful of the bride and her dad having their special moment. I was just wishing for a shoulder in which I could bury my head, a safe place where I didn’t have to hide my emotions but could be hidden from the audience.
When my college roommate got married two years ago, and the time came for that dance, I scanned the room for another friend of ours who had lost her dad earlier that year. As much as that moment was a special new memory being made for my former roommate, it was an old one of my dad and me picking out a song to which we never got to dance, and a not so distant one my friend was fondly and sadly remembering. I walked across the room to make sure I could stand with her and hug her throughout the song. I didn’t want her to feel alone in her sadness. I wanted her to have an arm around her and a shoulder in which to bury her head if needed. Her husband was standing beside her too, but even he could not fully grasp what that moment felt like for her. He later told me how much my companionship had meant to her. I’m not any more thoughtful than our other friends who were in attendance. Unfortunately, I was the one who “got it.” I have continued to tear up at every daddy/daughter dance in every wedding since. I’m sure if my daughter one day gets married and gets to dance with my husband, I will need an entire box of tissues handy. I won’t apologize for those emotions. However, I may seek out those who “get it” to hold me in those moments.
Today, as I was pulling out of our neighborhood, a car like Joyce drove was pulling in. I strained to see if it was her, and was about to wave, when I realized it couldn’t be her. I lost it, tears streaming. That is how grief hits. Yes, it’s in the big moments like a walk down the aisle without a certain someone’s arm on which to lean. It’s also in the realization that someone special won’t wave back as she passes you in the neighborhood. It is in the recognition that my deep sadness on a particular day happens to fall on a holiday or anniversary of some sort when I later check the calendar. It’s in the face of the stranger at the bus stop who looks eerily like my daddy. It’s in the news that someone else so lovable and funny like Robin Williams has taken his life. It’s in watching another father/daughter dance. It’s a scent. It’s a crass joke that would have had him howling while my mom looked on bewilderedly, too naive to get the punchline. It’s in the moments of pride when I want to call and say, “look, dad, I did it.”
I used to think we were only allowed to outwardly experience grief in the obvious canyon moments. I thought that the grief-filled crevices in between should be brushed off, pushed down, that they were not important enough or relatable enough for those driving past me or sitting next to me to “get it.” I realize now that they don’t need to. As I write this from a coffee shop bar stool, I have wiped a few tears and blown my nose a couple times. My neighbor at the bar looked over at me once but didn’t pry. I’m ok. Emotions are ok. Memories are a blessing. They deserve our full attention, no matter how big or small the moment feels when they hit.
