Tumultuous waves of memorial grief are part of my story.
In college I would go into the dorm room of friends and say, "Tell me a story." It was met with eye rolls or smiles at my seemingly silly invitation. (My heart is designed to care sincerely about the stories we live and it was my way of exploring back then). My senior year of college I would be inducted into a new world. Not just beginning a career but the rite of passage to losing my father to metastatic melanoma. Tomorrow would be my parents 38th Wedding Anniversary and on the eve of this lovely union one of those waves of grief is flowing toward me.
Dad listened to all of my stories. He was my inspiration for being present to someone. He never said, "Tell me a story" or even, "What's up?" He was just always there. He didn't go to meetings, have dinners or cocktails after work, or join clubs and organizations. Work, then home to be with us every single day. Sitting with me quietly or getting animated and full of gestures of exuberance after a few beers and discussions of life and dreams with me on the couch while I did homework or told him the latest idea I had for myself are vivid moments to me today. Dad modeled peaceful presence...and after a few Hamms Lights a lot of joyful banter!
Moving toward the hardest parts of his illness he told me a few reflections that never leave my soul. These treasured comments are alive in me so strongly because the conversation between us was taken away bit by bit as his illness grew and affected his brain. It wasn't so much the exact words he would share ; "I have had a great life. I have a beautiful wife and great children." It was the gratitude in his voice that still sings to me when I get sad and wish him here.
Many times since he has moved to Heaven, and when I feel tugging to just be with him and his wisdom, I would go and sit near his chair and imagine him there as I shared my new story. The practice of his quiet presence of not asking a million questions was available to me even in his physical absence. Losing his loving smile in front of my face has stretched me to use my other senses. Dad's example of appreciation in his most pain filled days has made me look at everything as though he has personally had a hand in sending me all the gifts I enjoy here by divine partnership with Heaven instead of in the grumble of "he didn't get to see this." It is as though he is experiencing my story in play by play mode and the distance seems instead like presence moving from inside my heart outward into life.
The last words he said to me when he arrived home by ambulance for hospice have held me together on nights like this when grief, which seemed so tucked away safely in a journal, comes loudly pounding into each heartbeat. Perfectly calming the wild wave, I remember how Dad looked gently at me with that sparkle of grateful light as they lifted him high in the air through the doorway on his cot; his mouth whispering, "I love you. Pray." Simple advice or wisdom? I am comforted for now. He is as close as my next prayer or "I love you" to my children.
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