Category: mourning

Grief and Introspection

Today I was retrieving something from my trunk, and hit the Bop-It someone got my daughter for Christmas (or birthday, I don’t remember). My daughter, my dad, and I would play with it and compete against each other. Dad ended up with the highest score, and no matter how hard we tried, we couldn’t best it. So the high score remains. The Bop-It lived at Dave’s house, and every so often it would get bumped, prompting it to say “Bop It to Start! High Score, 76!” which would prompt us all to yell at it. Like you do. While I was retrieving something from the trunk, I bumped it on accident and it started.
It made me sad. Which seems like such a silly thing to get sad about because it’s just a stupid Bop It. I pushed it from my mind because I had to get to work. Needless to say, I’ve had plenty of time to sit and think, and reminded myself of it again. I started to cry. Allowed myself the moment of sadness, no matter how silly it might have seemed. Which sparked its own moment of self reflection, I think.
I used to think crying, or acknowledging that I was hurting, was really stupid. I used to hate myself for feeling pain. I don’t really know why, I don’t know where I picked it up from, but I did. Hiding your pain, hiding your hurt, doesn’t make it go away. It just makes it fester. Like slapping a bandaid on a wound, it doesn’t stop the infection growing. Pretending not to hurt only prolongs the grieving process, or turns it into anger. Perhaps that is why I was always such an angry person. Anger made sense. Anger I could control. But pain? No. Pain was a foreign object in the eye of my existence.
Grief is not a one size fits all kind of deal. Grief hits different for everyone. Today has been a sad day, but it has caused a bit of self reflection. It reminds me how strange the grieving process really is. It isn’t the day to day loss that hits the hardest. I don’t know if it’s because I haven’t worked through the shock to mourn properly, or if I’m still actively grieving. It’s the little things that catch me up, and generally take me by surprise.
Everyone talks about the five stages of grief, but so many fail to realize how misleading those five stages really are to people. Grief cannot be defined, and you cannot plan for it. It does not come wrapped with a pretty bow, and as long as you complete the steps you’ll be back to normal. With loss, you have to define a new normal, and depending on the severity of loss, you have a lot of rebuilding to do.
The point I’m making in all of my word soup is we need to stop looking at pain, especially grieving, as something we can just get over. We need to stop burying it deep and hoping it’ll sort itself out. This isn’t something that can be tossed in the “For Later” pile and forgotten. Life has a funny way of throwing reminders at you as though to say “Hey, you forgot to grieve”. I will confess, right after his passing, I did still feel anger. I did try to bury it, to deal with it later, when it was more convenient. But let’s be honest, there is never a convenient time to grieve.
So even though I’m at work, I allowed myself the little cry, and decided to move forward by writing about it. Yes, this moment will hurt. Many more moments will hurt. The pain is still fresh, the wounds are still raw. But every single one of those moments is a reminder that we loved. It is a reminder that we felt deeply enough to feel. Pain, and love, are the strongest reminders that we are alive, still human.
I am glad that I have found the strength to realize pain does not make me weaker. To realize tears do not mean I am not strong. I am glad I can freely say “I feel sad”. I am VERY glad that I don’t let my emotions fester like an oozing wound.

In Remembrance of David Colvin

In Remembrance of David Colvin

Content Warning: This blog will delve heavily into the topic of death.

Recently, my family and I experienced one of the hardest losses we’ve ever had to endure. It has taken a bit of time to process all of it, but now I feel I must share this story with the world.

Before I begin, allow me to tell you the story of David Colvin.

David “Big Dave” Colvin came into my life when I was eight years old. He began as my mother’s client (my mother is a massage therapist), and very quickly became a friend. However, by this point, my mother had welcomed many clients into our lives, but many of them had left. Not to be malicious, but some of them had passed away, moved away, or simply ran out of funding to be able to see her regularly. My heart had been broken countless times by people I really loved just leaving. Needless to say, when this man entered her life with the unspoken promise of sticking around, I was hesitant.

Very quickly, however, it became apparent he was in this for the long haul. Our entire lives became focused on Big Dave. Entire routines were built around this man. His scheduled appointment was Monday, he and my mother would go out for lunch on Thursdays, and Saturday was race day. He raced at the dirt track, and soon I discovered a love for the sport as well. I enjoyed every part of it, from the smell of the fuel burning, to the dirt flinging around, the sound of engines revving… there was something oddly comforting about it, a feeling I still have today. After each race, late into the night or early into the morning, we would go out to eat at some 24 hour restaurant (Usually Huddle House), and discuss track politics. This became our life, our routine.

When I was thirteen and had attempted suicide, he brought me something to eat in the hospital because I’d been tired of hospital food. He sat and talked, and he became an oddly comforting presence. That was the moment when I knew, for certain, he was never going to leave us. And he didn’t.

He was there for every birthday party.

He was there for every program.

He was there for every event he could swing.

I remember once when I was a Girl Scout, we were in the local Christmas parade. He showed up with my mother in a 1961 Corvette convertible. I loved that car, and wanted so badly to ride in it. So he told me to hop in, and the two of us rode around the parking lot. He drove, and I held my hands in the air and let the wind flow through my fingers yelling “WOO HOO!”. He drove around until I was finally bored with it and he took me back to my mother. My hair was a mess, but I was absolutely thrilled. Also, my friends thought it was cool that I got to ride around in the cool car.

Being in Southern, USA, with people with more money than sense, it didn’t take long for the rumor mill to start and soon we were hearing rumors that Big Dave and my mother were having an affair. At the time, a small sex shop had opened (you can imagine how well this went over in a town that has a population of about 22,000 and well over 60 churches). So Big Dave, and my mom, showed up to this sex shop in the Corvette and parked right out front where everyone could see them. To us, these rumors were hilarious, but it spoke volumes as to the level of friendship, and how valuable he was to my family. He wasn’t just a client, he was family. These rumors became the running joke for all of us, including my dad who often referred to Big Dave as “my wife’s boyfriend”. IN PUBLIC. TO PEOPLE OUTSIDE OUR CIRCLE. When my mom and dad renewed their wedding vows, Big Dave was the best man, because “Of course I have to be the best man, my girlfriend is getting married”.

As a teenager, when I was in trouble, I knew Dave was always there to help me. He would drop whatever he was doing to help. And that came in handy because I ended up in a lot of sticky situations. He wasn’t afraid to tell me that whatever I’d done had been stupid (and it was), but he helped me regardless of the level of stupid I’d managed to end up in.

When I played basketball for school and our games were out of town (out of state really because we had to travel to Arkansas), he was there. When I had my first big wreck after driving for a very long time (me v. deer), he showed up in the middle of the night to pick my car up and towed it to his house, even helped us with repairing the damage.

At some point along the way, Big Dave became just… Dave.

My dad built his own race car in Dave’s shop, and soon we were out there supporting my dad.

My graduation party was held at his house.

He was at my wedding. Both of them. In fact, one of them was at his house.

And then my daughter was born.

The routine expanded to include Wednesday family nights.

Dave loved Ellie. Spoiled her so much. He would lay in the floor and play marbles with her, play blocks with her, taught her how to play chess. He bought her skates, and let her skate around the house. There were games of tag, and when my daughter started school, she started giving him homework. She “taught him” how to count, “taught him” his colors, “taught him” math. She showed him science experiments she’d learned, and as a result she is far better at math and science than my mother and I could have ever hoped to be. He had a way of connecting with her and getting to her that to the rest of us seemed magical. They understood each other.

We had “Daveisms”, or little phrases or quirks that Dave was famous (or infamous) for saying. We had the “official egg boiling pot”, a little joke amongst us. We were as much a part of his life as he was in ours, and as the routine grew to include more birthday parties, more events, perhaps we took for granted that he was always going to be there.

His health began to turn for the worst, and we watched him very slowly deteriorate. But powered by pure stubbornness alone, he insisted on living as normal a life as he could. He still cooked on his designated Wednesday, it just took a little longer. He still went out of his way to help people, regardless of how he was feeling that day. He went out of his way to make sure everyone was comfortable, everyone was happy.

I hope we did the same for him.

Towards the last days of his life, he held onto that same spark, but it was obvious he wasn’t turning around this time.

When he had his heart attack, the doctors didn’t think he’d last long. It would have been ten years this July.

Two years ago, the doctors told him he needed dialysis or he would die within the week.

We all thought if anyone could pull it off, it would be him. Perhaps selfishly, perhaps hopefully, I waited for the fateful moment where he sat up and said “Alright I’m tired of this, what are we doing for Ellie’s birthday party?”

That moment never came.

He started hallucinating, but he hallucinated good things. He would tell “someone” stories of his life; he would tell “someone” stories of his friend Marvin, of showing up to my poetry reading wearing purple pigtails (he did, it was ridiculous), of racing. He hallucinated candy on the ceilings. He hallucinated my daughter drawing him pretty pictures on the walls. Least surprising, he hallucinated working on a car until he was told he could work on it later because now he needed to rest. “Okay”.

When it became obvious he wasn’t going to pull out of this, that we were nearing the end, we practically moved into his house so he was never alone. My mother remained vigilant by his side the entire time, sleeping in five to ten minute spurts and refusing to stay gone for long for fear that he might need her. After all he’d done for us, it was the least we could do for him. Another friend, Carla, stepped up to the plate and did anything and everything the rest of us could not do. I am so proud of her and I hope she knows that. Marvin, another dear friend, was the backbone we needed through everything, trying to stay one step ahead of the game and be everyone’s rock. I hope he knows how valuable. I hope they both know how amazing they are.

On the day of his death, he started coughing really badly. We rolled him onto his side and his eyes popped open. He looked afraid. I dropped down onto my knees so that I was face to face with him, and spoke to him so he wouldn’t be scared. I said “Hi!” and he looked at me. He knew who I was. I saw recognition in his eyes. And he didn’t look afraid anymore. He said “Hi”, in his Dave way of talking. That’s all I wanted, was a moment just between the two of us where he was completely lucid and he knew who I was. Knew we were there taking care of him.

A funny moment happened when mom asked my dad to “get the wash cloth off the freezer” except my dad and I both heard “Get the wash cloth out of the freezer”. When this came to light, my dad said “Good, then I don’t feel stupid about checking in the freezer first.” We all had a laugh, and dad said a common Daveism “I just does as I’m told”. Dave smiled. He actually smiled.

In preparation for my shift at work, I laid down for a small nap. Napping there was easy, because Dave’s home had become like a second home for me during swing shifts and random night shifts. My dad walked down the hall and I panicked, only to realize he was going to the bathroom. I settled back down for a nap. Then my dad walked down the hall again, inducing more panic, and dropped some batteries, but I settled back down again. The third time I heard him walk down the hall, I thought it was to go to the bathroom again… until I heard him say my name. I knew what he was about to say.

I reiterate the content warning from the start of the post. This next part might be difficult for some to read.

I jumped up and ran down the hall to his room… His breathing had become shallow, and was beginning to rattle. He was no longer responding to our voices. I sat at one side, Carla sat at the other, and mom took her place at his head. We spoke to him, and we all tried to sound strong but inside we were all falling apart. We began making frantic phone calls to get the local friends and family there as quickly as possible. I held his hand. My mind was racing. I wasn’t ready. I wasn’t ready to say goodbye. What would it be like? What would it be like to watch someone I loved dearly, a man I considered a second father and a grandfather to my child die? Could I do it? I felt like I needed to be there. I felt like I owed him that. To be with him in his final moment. I could see his heart beating, and I focused on that.

I begged and pleaded to anyone who could hear me to please make his heart stronger, please… give him more time, give us more time. Give him more time, there was still good he could do for the world.

I tried to bargain my life for his. His life has meaning, purpose, I’ve been trying to get rid of mine since I was thirteen, let him have it. Please, there are people that need him, there’s still so much he has left to do. There are still projects he’s never finished.

But no one listened.

I held his hand.

Surrounded by family and friends, I watched him take his last breath… I watched his heart stop beating. He died at 9:52 PM.

I had a lot of preconceived notions about death prior to this. I had always thought death would be….dramatic. I don’t really know what I was expecting, but it wasn’t that. It was so sudden, I honestly got upset because I thought everyone had just… given up on him. I wouldn’t. I wouldn’t give up. I held his hand. I kept holding his hand. Everyone walked away. I held his hand. No, he had to be there still, life doesn’t just….STOP like that. I kept holding his hand. I couldn’t let go. If I let go, he was gone, and I couldn’t let go. I stared at his chest, willing it to rise again, willing his heart to pump again, bargaining again. Just not yet. Not yet.

I broke down… I sobbed… I didn’t care who was around me… I didn’t care who saw… I cried. After that everything became a blur of phone calls, of coroners, of investigators, of more phone calls, of funeral home directors loading him up and taking him away.

I let my daughter see him. She cried and held my hand. I couldn’t stand to just leave him alone, but it felt so wrong to be there when he wasn’t “there”. I kept touching him, kept kissing his forehead, kept… hoping… The universe is funny, maybe it just took a little longer to do the trade and any minute I would be in his place and he would be in mine. Any minute. Those minutes turned into hours as more frantic phone calls, took place… and I don’t remember much after they took him away.

CW: If you tuned out, you are safe to continue reading from this point

The past few weeks have been a blur. I was in shock for a few days. I felt like I was watching someone else live my life for me. I was a robot doing what I was programmed to do, and little more. When I wasn’t doing anything, I would just stare at the wall until hours passed. I didn’t sleep much. I didn’t eat much. He died on February 15, 2020, and I still haven’t quite worked my way back to normal.

It didn’t seem real. None of it seems real.

We did a simple graveside service for him where we buried his urn, precisely as he wanted. I am thankful for that opportunity. But it made it all more real.

And made me realize the hardest part of loss is not the loss itself. It is learning to live again after the loss. 22 years of routines, of patterns, of sayings, of understandings, gone. Just gone in the blink of an eye.

But Dave was more than that. He was more than a client, more than a family friend. He was family. He amounted to more than his things, his stuff. We had his trust, his love, we had “Daveisms” and memories.

I don’t know if I ever made him proud. I hope I did. I hope I have. I am honored to have been there during his final moments, and I hope he knows just how much he was loved.

Dave taught me many things about life. He taught me the power of giving for the sake of giving, but he also taught me the need for caution when it came to giving. Because many took advantage of his kindness. Dave taught me the importance of family, and helped me learn that sometimes the strongest family ties aren’t through blood, though blood family should be honored, such as his parents. Dave taught me that people make mistakes, and no matter how dumb they were, they could be fixed. Through him I extended my family to include new people, and feel the strongest sort of pride for having them in my life.

I also watched my mother be so strong through one of the hardest moments in her life, and I hope she knows how proud I am of her, and how much I love her. I know for a fact she made Dave proud.

I hope Ellie never forgets him, and always remembers his quirks. There was an interesting moment when he was still in the hospital. He was asleep, so we didn’t want to disturb him. I kissed him on the forehead to tell him goodbye, then Ellie wanted to say goodbye as well. Mom and I stood at the door and watched as she stood there. She didn’t say a word. Just stared at him. After a moment, she nodded, and walked out. I don’t know if she saw something, as kids sometimes do, or if she accepted what was happening. I just don’t know. But it was a powerful moment, regardless.

And if my life was not a good enough trade for his, then perhaps it means my life still has purpose? Perhaps there is something more I am meant to do in this world still.

We weren’t ready, and no amount of time would have made us ready. Even if we had a hundred more years, the world would not have been ready to lose someone so precious.

Thank you, David Colvin, Dave, for everything you did for me, for us. I hope we made you proud, and continue to make you proud. I hope you know how much you meant to each and every one of us.

Rest in peace, Dave. I love you.

 

 

My Grandmother Passed Away…

It wasn’t sudden. We knew it was coming. I’d even prepared myself. I’d hardened my heart, convinced myself I didn’t care. I’d taken all of her flaws and built a shell around myself, reminding myself of all the hurt she’d caused me. 

And there was a lot of hurt. 

I was convinced at a young age that something was wrong with me, because Mamaw didn’t seem to love me as much as she loved my other cousins. I thought something was wrong with me because I didn’t fit into her ideal of what a girl was supposed to like. She’d buy me gifts I didn’t like (dolls, pink clothes, etc) while supplying the boys with ample toys they loved. While they ran around the house shooting each other with Nerf guns, I stood to the side with a baby doll wondering…what did I do wrong?

I felt like I was under constant scrutiny, and was constantly being compared. “Oh you like to sing? Your cousin does it better.” “You want to play piano? Both of your cousins already play instruments, and they do it so well.” “How are you ever going to get a husband if you don’t learn how to cook?” 

There would be family get togethers that she “forgot” to invite me. Home videos featured my cousins, but not me. What did I do wrong? 

At the age of thirteen I tried to kill myself. She responded by sending a preacher to talk to me. 

At fifteen, I gave up trying to impress her. I concluded that no matter what I tried to do, I would never be good enough in her eyes. I stopped caring, I stopped trying, I stopped wondering. There were no more summer stays at Mamaw’s house, and our contact became limited to three times a year. Birthday phone call, Thanksgiving, and Christmas. 

I stopped trying to tell her what I wanted for Christmas, because she acted like she had no interest in finding out who I was as a person. She was so wrapped up in who she wanted me to be, it didn’t matter who I actually was. Birthday visits or calls were awkward as she would say “happy birthday” and spend the remainder of our phone call discussing how successful or happy my cousins were.

I was constantly reminded of my failures. 

Or all the times she came to town to visit my cousins, or her great grandchildren, only to not tell us she was near. 

When it came closer to her death, these were the pains I wrapped around myself. These were the wounds I hardened. She didn’t care about me. Why should I give her even an ounce of my sympathy? I resolved that my job would be to be the strong one. It would be my job to hold everyone’s hand and keep everyone’s collective shit together since I had nothing to offer the situation. 

And yet… I was still shocked when I received the call that she had gone. And yet… I was still sad. 

This made me angry. No. She hurt me so much while she was alive, she doesn’t get to hurt me with her death. I fought hard, tightened my shields around me tighter than before. I had a job to do and it didn’t involve my sadness. 

The time came for the funeral where we were regaled with all the good she’d done for the church she attended. There weren’t stories involving her family. I got to hear all about how she helped kids, how good she was to people in her church. I got mad again. 

But as the people were paraded past her body…. And all their eyes shimmered with tears… I saw other memories. 

Like when it was just the two of us, and she taught me how to enjoy a huge bowl of sherbet in front of the television. She loved ice cream. We’d get bowls and spoons, and watch television together. But it had to be just between us because the others weren’t allowed to eat in front of the television. 

Or the huge pool in front of her house where we’d all spend hours swimming. And we’d laugh and play until we were so cold we were shivering. 

She taught me that a world existed beyond my backyard, and there was always an opportunity to see or learn new things. 

She taught me how not to travel. Like loading four kids into an Econo van and giving them all McFlurries before driving to Texas. 

She taught me physics. Like how fast someone can whip an Econo van onto the side of the road, rip the side door open, and snatch the spoons we used to eat the McFlurries away after we all learned that the spoons whistle. 

She taught me the importance of being aware of my surroundings, and why it’s important to always have a good sense of direction. Like when she said the phrase “That guy looks like he knows where he’s going, let’s follow him.”

My grandmother taught me to not take myself so seriously and be able to laugh at myself. Like when she accused my cousin of putting fingerprints all over the coffee table….And said cousin was born with no hands….. 

My grandmother taught me why knowing your audience is a good idea when it comes to buying presents. “You think I need God and I stink, Mamaw?!” -Nick

“Everyone got a television. Except me. You know what I got? A jacket. Everyone else can watch tv, you know what I can do? Zip, zip.” -Christy

A well timed joke or a funny one liner makes all the difference in a conversation. She also taught me that facial expressions can speak volumes…Like when her lips would thin out to the point of disappearing when she got mad or uncomfortable. 

And as I stood to go passed her one last time, I remembered all of the Christmas parties we had. All the jokes we’d all share. The noise of everyone talking and laughing….It was so quiet in the funeral home. 

One cousin was great at music. Another was great at sports. The one thing she ever told me made her proud of me was my ability to write… 

That was all me. All mine. I wish she’d told me more often that she was proud of me. Finding out after her death that she held on to one of my poems was not how I wanted to find out she was proud. 

A chapter closed. Words that needed to be said between us would never get the chance to be spoken. No more calls, no more Christmas’ as a family. No chance to say sorry from either of our ends, no chance to tell each other that we were proud of one either. And I am proud of her. She fought cancer hard, and then finally decided she could fight no longer. 

So the last lessons my grandmother taught me…. Don’t take my daughter for granted, and don’t just assume she knows I’m proud of her. Tell her always, remind her always, that she is loved. 

And the power of saying I’m sorry. 

I won’t claim we were close. I won’t claim to have peace, or closure. But my words, my writing, are what made her proud. In her memory I write this. I hope wherever she is, she knows what I’ve written, and she knows the truth. 

I love you, Mamaw. And I’m sorry. I’m proud of you, and I am so very sad that you are no longer here. I am glad you aren’t in pain now. I hope you’ve found peace. 

Sometimes it’s hard…

So, as you may or may not have noticed, I gave up on the 100 stories thing. Life got in the way and made it very difficult. Plus, I realized that I was writing for therapy, but it wasn’t really working. I’ve turned my attention to art for the time being. But now I’ll sit and write out a blog post.

In a previous post, I talked about my grandfather and his passing. For the longest time I thought I was okay. In fact, I started to worry because I wasn’t sad anymore. I thought, surely there is something wrong with me. I still miss him, mind you. But I wasn’t sad. As I analyzed everything further, I realized it wasn’t that I didn’t feel anything, it was that I had somehow worked myself into a huge state of denial. Further proof that the stages of grief are not limited to six, and they don’t happen in any particular order. Nor do they happen quickly.

A few months before his passing, he left a voicemail. My mom has been checking it regularly and resaving it, but I hadn’t listened to it. A few nights ago, I finally did, and it started the grieving process all over again. For different reasons this time. In my mind, I remember his voice. It was strong and full of joy, full of life. When I remember him, that’s what I remember. The man on the phone didn’t sound like the voice I remembered. It sounded frail. It made me really sad.

I had a dream about him, about a week ago. I’ve been reading this book series called the Dresden Files. There’s a character in the book named Michael. He’s a Knight of the Cross, and fights supernatural bad guys with a sword made from one of the nails used during the Crucifixion. He’s really cool. When I really get into a series, it is not uncommon for my dreams to become themed with said series. So it wasn’t a surprise when I started dreaming about the book. Except instead of Michael, I see my grandfather. He was playing the role of Michael. It was really awesome. I don’t know if it was a “message from the other side” or what, but it still made me happy.

I’m sad for other reasons. October used to be a month I loved so dearly, but now it is a month I dread. I have never been so happy for a month to be over in my life. Now I’m just waiting for the rest of the year. Holidays are difficult to think about. They’ve always been a little hard, but this year I feel they’ll be almost unbearable. I don’t feel like putting on a happy face and pretending everything is okay, knowing that when I leave the family function it’ll be whispers and gossip. I am not happy, and I’m tired of pretending that I am for everyone elses’ sake.

In all of this, I’ve also come to realize that there are some days that I just don’t want to interact with anyone. The idea of having to talk to people through some medium or another makes my skin crawl. A physical touch is like an electric shock wave through me, and it hurts. But I can’t yell “DON’T TOUCH ME” or “DON’T TALK TO ME.” Especially at my job. My boss tried to give me the phone to call someone, and I panicked.

Some days are like that. Other days I’m fine. I will always and forever hate calling people, but sometimes I can do it. Sometimes I just can’t. I hate having to admit that.

I don’t know what to do, I don’t know what to think. I don’t know how to feel.

I just don’t know.