The Weight of It
T'Challa: . I am not ready to be without you.
T'Chaka: A man who has not prepared his children for his own death has failed as a father.
T'Chaka: A man who has not prepared his children for his own death has failed as a father.
Have I ever failed you?
T'Challa: Never.”
- Marvel: Black Panther
I was in a bicycle shop in Colorado Springs today when my son called.
"Dad, I have bad news. You need to call and check on a former student."
"Why, son?"
"Her dad, he died this morning. It was unexpected. You need to check on her."
This after the tragic death of one of Debbie's former students, who was also her cousin's daughter, in an accident on Monday. 16 years old, and gone in an instant. No rhyme or reason. My wife is definitely feeling this one deeply.
In the aftermath of Covid, it seems like we ought to all be used to unexpected, unfair loss.
Or at least no longer surprised by it.
I still am. A little numb to it at this point, but still sort of surprised every time.
Surprised at the suddenness.
Surprised at the unfairness.
Surprised at the inexplicable seeming randomness of it.
Surprised at the sheer emotional weight of it.
The call today had weight for me because it was the parent of a student I coached. She was a team leader, and she was one of those kids for whom the activity was her "thing." Her dad was younger than I am, and she lost him the same way I lost my dad- sudden and unexpected.
I joke with my students. I tell them, "I love you the legal amount." It's a joke, and it's not. I truly do love this kid, so that makes it heavy, too.
The weight of it all is, sometimes, overwhelming.
One Sunday morning in December of 2020, I was just overwhelmed with grief. I left the church service I was in, and just sat on the floor in they entry way and cried. There was no clear explanation for my tears. They just came.
Then, in small notebook I was carrying, I starting making a list. People who I knew who had died or had a parent die that year. Starting in March with my own father, there were over twenty deaths. Friends, family, friends's family.
It felt like the list would never end.
It's been 3 years since all that loss started. While the frequency has decreased, the number continues to grow. It's part of life. I understand it is.
And I don't understand it.
I called my student after I found out about her dad, and just told her she could call if she needed to. We'll head home tomorrow, and I'll go find my student when we get home. I'll hug her, and tell her I love her (the legal amount). I'll tell her to let me know what she needs- when she knows what that is. It feels so helpless to not have anything smart or wise to say. Hopefully, presence, even on the phone is a start of something helpful.
Then, next week, we will go to two funerals.
Meanwhile, it's been a week of still processing my own individual grief. Grief over my Grandmother's death in January, grief over my father's death, and grief for these losses this week.
Grief is, after all, an ongoing process. Maybe we all need to talk about it to each other just a little more. Maybe that would make it easier, maybe- maybe just even a little easier. Maybe I just need to say these things as a part of my process...
March 13, 2020. That's when it all started for me. That's when we lost my Dad.
I wrote this poem on Monday, March 13, 2023.
After 3 Years
After 3 years, I still feel your loss
Sometimes I feel it as deeply and intensely as the night you left us
Sometimes I go for days or weeks, and I don’t feel it at all
Or I’ll see a workover rig as I drive
Or I’ll need to ask you a question
And there it is.
Back again
The loss.
After 3 years I still see you.
In the way my son works
In the tools you gave me
In random wisdom I hear in my head at the right moment.
In the mirror-I see you looking back at me
I still see you
After 3 years I still long to talk to you
About some amazing thing your grandson’s done
About a thing which you’d have found funny
About my life
About your life
Just to hear your voice
Just to talk to you
After 3 years I’m still processing why
Why so soon?
Why couldn't more have been done?
Why didn’t I call that week?
Why didn’t I go see you sooner?
Why?
Just...
Why?
After 3 years I’m healing
Healing emotionally
Finding ways to enjoy your memory
Learning to be blessed by the ways you are still a part of me
Navigating the emotional roller coaster
Knowing you are better than you were here
Trusting I’ll see you again
Healing
But not healed
After 3 years I just still miss you
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