Today is 1st May 2022. It’s been a year since my beloved father went to his heavenly abode.
Time flies…Time heals. I’ve heard these words – now twice over – at each of my parent’s funerals. You’ve probably heard them too. Or even spoken of them to someone. Well intentioned. Well-meaning words. The question I'm sometimes asked by people who experience loss is - how does one get to this time and point in space where time appears to have flown and wounds have healed (point B)? The journey from point A to point B, so to say. That is quite a journey. Almost mystical to some, unassailable to others. At times this journey is smooth sailing through calm placid waters; at times its through rocky points which one steers clear of – never to drop anchor; and at other times the rough waves almost threaten to deluge and sink.
Let me
share my journey of this past year with you.
My first feeling was that of relief. In the immediate aftermath
of Dad’s passing away. Relief that his suffering was over. Relief that he had
now moved on to a better place. Relief that the uncertainty was over. Relief
that my caregiving days for him were done with. Much as I considered it a privilege
to have taken care of him in his last months and moments, it was difficult.
Physically and emotionally. So, there now was relief.
Along with the relief was a feeling of dissociation. Some
call it numbness. I differ. It was a stepping aside of myself from myself,
while I saw myself doing what needed to be done in the hours and days that
followed – makes sense? This brought in its wake, a deep abiding calm. Not a
tremor in my hands, not a tear, not a break in my voice. While I observed it
all. With that calmness was a deeper certainty that I was being guided through
it all. By a higher power. That God had a place and time for everything and a
means for it too. That observer in me, seemed to know when to let go and experience
the loss, to shed the tear, to remember, to hold on, to reach out. And I did.
I found solace in talking about my father. With relatives,
friends. People who called me a few weeks and months later. And patiently listened
to me. Like writing, talking about dad’s last few weeks proved cathartic for me.
And I found myself remembering. Remembering quiet moments spent with Dad. Remembering
how I felt loved by him. And these remembrances happened during quiet early
morning walks inside my house (remember it was the peak of covid lockdown), often
to the tunes of Enya (I know not why, but after listening to gospel songs in
the immediate couple of weeks following the funeral, I found Enya suited my swirling
feelings later).
Often these remembrances brought with them, rivulets of
tears down my face. And I let them flow. They needed expression. They brought with
them a dark sense of loss which appeared to weigh down my soul in that moment.
And I let myself experience that darkness, that weight in my chest. I let myself notice the myriad hues of darkness and weight. As my hands
and feet moved in tandem and my eyes searched for visual clues that brought
memories, my emotions swirled inside. For a while. I also experienced that when
I reached its depths, the observer in me let me know and the weight lessened.
The black darkness became grey mists, never white…not yet. And through it all,
was the certainty that I was on a deep sacred journey. A difficult journey of
discovering myself anew. And that I would know when I was done with grieving.
I know not when this happened. Long periods of not grieving and then suddenly
a thought, a word, a visual cue - that brought with it a sudden pang of sadness,
while few drops of salt unknowingly found their way to my lips. And at other times,
memories brought with them rueful smiles. They existed in tandem – the tears
and the smiles. Then more smiles than tears. The darkness eased into lightness.
And through this phase came the understanding that its ok to grieve. Even if I’m
the odd one out. Even if it’s oftentimes scary. Even if people may say that its
time to move on and their timelines do not coincide with mine. Even if the grief
is for a parent who has had a good long life.
I have found that grieving takes courage. Extraordinary
courage at times to avoid the easy route of distraction and avoidance. The courage to be
vulnerable…to oneself. To find the still small voice of silence…to find meaning… in the depths of grief. Avoidance
is easy…giving expression takes courage…going down the slippery slope of grief is
an act of faith. Finding toeholds to bolster oneself back up takes greater
courage. I have understood that one can 'grieve well'. I have found beauty in its depths, unexpected succor. A deep
understanding that I may have just walked through the valley of the shadow of death
and found God's healing and comfort.
Moving on is inevitable. The pathway to healing of the grief wounds is different each time…for each person. I now know that time heals, and the healing takes myriad forms. Oftentimes leaving behind scars in its wake. Scars which have beauty. The hallmarks of courage, learning, experience, empathy. These scars feel light enough to fly in time.
This has been my journey this particular time. We each have our own unique journey...customised for us.
Yes, Time flies and Time heals…and lets embrace the beautiful scars they leave behind.
