The Holes in My Fabric

It happened again this morning. I woke up and thought, “I need to call Grandma PJ and Papa Perk today!” Then it hit me like a combination of a punch to the stomach and a rending of my heart that I needed to call Papa Perk today, and he would need the phone call more than ever. The stab of grief was as fresh as ever, the delicate scar tissue of a few months was easily shredded. Today would have been her 85^th birthday, and their 67^th anniversary.

My dear father-in-law, known simply as Papa to his children, many of his children-in-law, and his grandchildren passed away suddenly a little over a month after we lost my grandmother. The loss of Papa (not to be confused with Papa Perk, my grandfather and husband to my late grandmother) has also been difficult for my family and me. There have been so many things which he should have been able to attend over the past few months, events which he was greatly anticipating. Everything from a blockbuster First Communion of three of his grandchildren at once, including my oldest, to big birthdays, to gracing the stage in another play (we were supposed to be in it together; it was a difficult decision for me, but I stayed in the show; he was the reason I have been back onstage these past few years), to all the events surrounding the birth of his newest grandchild, and many other things which I am forgetting at the moment.

The loss of both of these remarkable people has left holes in the fabric of our daily lives, and I have to say that I sometimes grow weary of the feeling that something is missing. When the whole family gathers, no matter how joyous the occasion, the absence of Papa whispers around the corners of everything. I will turn to tell him a joke I heard that I know he will love, and he isn’t there. I’ll wait for the familiar tug on my ponytail, and the compliment on my hair, his son’s taste, and how happy he is to have me in the family, but it never comes. I’ll turn to see the twinkle in his eyes as his grandchildren are being charmingly precocious, and listen to him expound upon the wonderfulness of the children present, but it isn’t there. What is there? The people who mourn him, many of whom simply would not exist had he not. Sometimes, the whispers of his absence turn into conversation. The elephant in the room is acknowledged and someone speaks of him, or of how the children are reacting to missing their Papa. No adult speaks of his or her own grief unless directly asked. Speaking of our children’s sorrow seems to be the safest way to say, “I know. I miss him, too.” Of course, we are also noting how important he was to even the smallest in our family community. I can tell you my children ask about him all the time. My oldest son sobbed uncontrollably at the cemetery the day of the funeral. He now speaks of death as, “You know, the thing that happened to Papa.” You can’t name it without upsetting him, especially after he has uttered that phrase. Death has become the Lord Voldemort of our house. My middle child will suddenly become very sad b/c he misses Papa. My youngest asks questions at the most random times to try to wrap her mind around the fact that she will never see or hug Papa again. She was quite angry at the funeral when she didn’t get to say good-bye to Papa. Saying good-bye means giving and receiving a hug and kiss in her world, not simply saying the words to the body that housed the person you love. Occasionally, the whispers of his absence erupt into screams, tears will fill someone’s eyes, often those of my mother-in-law, and the Papa shaped holes in the room are brought into sharp relief. 

My grandmother’s absence hits when I become involved in something creative, when I am going down the list of people I need to call, when I am making other plans, when I see or hear something neat that I know she would love, when my daughter says something and sounds just.like.her., when things are hard and I just want someone who is always on my side but is not a purveyor of BS to help me sort through them, and at other random times. I so miss just catching up on everything going on with the family and family friends. Every day, I come up with something that I should tell her next time I call, and I remember that I can’t call her. Perversely, sometimes I want to call her and try to sort through how much I miss her and how much she means to me and my family.

This sort of grief, the grief of a few months’ time, is uncomfortable for others. They have offered condolences and been there through the initial shock, but, now, aren’t you over it? They have moved on, not because they are unfeeling, but because the person was not a part of their daily lives. The loss is a general one, and we need to get on with things. It used to be that you mourned those close to you publicly for six months, and went into “half-mourning” for another six. You may still need to get up and about some things, but the fact that a loss had occurred was accepted. Now, we must get up and at ‘em, ASAP. Many companies have bereavement policies of a few days for “close family members,” and plenty have no bereavement leave at all in place. Grief is hard to understand b/c no two people experience it the exact same way. Grief is difficult b/c it colors everything, and can ebb and flow, like the tides. Grief is uncomfortable b/c there is not much to be done to help the grieving beyond listening when they need it, and, if you are close enough, maybe filling a few of the practical gaps left in the absence of the mourned.

Others’ grief makes people do and say stupid, although often well-meaning, things. Most days, a simple, “I’m sorry,” and “How are you/your husband/your kids/your mother-in-law/your grandfather/etc. holding up?” will do. Then, you just listen and respond appropriately. I have had people ask me if it’s easier to deal with my grandmother’s death or my father-in-law’s death, one coming with a bit of warning, the other very suddenly. Let me tell you a little secret: It all sucks. There are ways to rationalize which might have been easier, or why one might be better than the other, but in the end, the result is the same. We are left with holes. Some days those holes are filled with the light they brought into our lives, and other days the darkness of their absence seems to go on infinitely. Many days it is a struggle between the two, a sort of greyness that, like an overcast day can show glimpses of the sun, or bring in the storm clouds that are as black as night and carry the fear of a deluge and possible destruction.   

I will say that I am tired of attending events and going through my days feeling what is in many ways so tangibly missing, but I am so very grateful that I had these two people in my life. If missing them now is the price for loving them before, I will take the holes, and look for the light to shine through a little more often as time passes, knowing that it won’t be a linear progression. I will shine that light to the others who loved and mourn them and to the world because all of us need a little more light in our lives.