In processing my dad’s death of five months, I realize I’m not there yet. —Susan Lynn
For me, there’s a fine line between being able to say, “Oh, Dad would’ve loved Tim’s wedding,” and saying it in joy knowing he really would have approved, rather than in wistfulness and feeling the sorrow that we don’t have him with us to share familial milestones.
Earlier this week I met with Roberta Johnson and she kindly shared some thoughts of what it is like to lose a spouse.
It’s only been a year since Charlie Johnson died. The anniversary last August of his passing was particularly hard, Roberta said.
As much as we try to move on, events, including celebrations, keep pulling us back into the grief. My dad’s death brought my mother’s back into focus, probably because they were inseparable as a couple.
Death also brings life into sharper focus. I’m living and breathing, enjoying a loving relationship, going to work, laughing with friends — and Dad is not. The simple fact that I still have life ahead has made me feel guilty.
I still replay the last few months of his life over and over in my mind. He got cancer, he was old, and he died. “That’s what happens,” I tell myself.
I find such detached reasoning helpful; it assures me nothing I could have done could have saved him.
But that doesn’t mean I’ve pushed him or my mother out of my mind.
In an article I recently read, a psychologist said, “Closure is for bank accounts, not love accounts.” That metaphor gives me great comfort to know the dreams, flashbacks and memories of those I have lost over the years are signs I am absorbing these people into my personal fabric. They are becoming part of me.
While visiting with Roberta in her Home Detail store she looked around and said, “He’s everywhere, but something’s missing.”
In spirit, but not in body.
Learning to hold on is what allows us to let go.
Closure is for bank accounts, not love accounts
