In-Between Grief
“Moving Through Grief”, mixed media, by Vicki Donaldson Einsel
My dark days made me strong. Or maybe I already was strong and they made me prove it ~ Emery Lord
Recently, we went to sit shiva with a friend who lost his mother. I’m not Jewish, so I wasn’t very familiar with the customs. When we showed up, we were jokingly told the only “rule” was the hostess was going to “force” us to eat. As a foodie and emotional eater . . . I’ve got this! Sitting Shiva, and breaking bread, with family members was a lovely way to support and celebrate the loss of a matriarch.
Afterwards, my husband and I went to our favorite neighborhood Italian restaurant. It’s our place for comfort, date nights and celebrations. The staff feels like family. We sat at the bar. As we were leaving, we are introduced to a gentlemen. I’ll call him John.
We instictively knew he was special.
John, is a big strapping, clean shaven guy. He’s soft spoken, yet rough around the edges. He’s a trucker. Our Italian restaurant is also his favorite and he has a long history, with lots of memories built there. We chit chat. I learn a lot about the challenges a trucker faces these days, especially since COVID. John educates us on the best way to allow a tractor trailer to pull in front of you on the highway. He explains if you turn on the flashers for 5 seconds it acts as a sign of acknowlegement to the driver. The conversation was easy, he was riveting.
John relaxes and he begins to tell us his tragic, heart shattering story. He lost both of the teenage daughters in a house fire two months earlier.
Both daughters.
I don’t know how he was still standing.
Not sure what we can say or do to take away the unimaginable pain. I feel helpless. We pay for his dinner.
As a mother of two boys and as some one who experienced a disaster and lost material things, I deeply feel for this man I just met. I hold back my tears as I listen. John talks about the light in each girl, their interests and their quirky sweet traits. He tells us the girls lived with thier mother and the house had no smoke alarms, no sprinkler system and the windows were painted shut. He shows us the news coverage and photos of each girl. He talks about his understandable anger and despair.
John, takes a deep breath and explains he feels grateful that his daughters life saved 4 grown adults.
Grateful?
My heart flutters and my whole body sparks alerting me to pay attention. Gratitude. In this situation? After such a short period of time?
I am witnessing Gratitude and Love and Loss and deep, deep soul crushing experiences. Yet, this father finds grace and comfort in helping others. His story, his gentle nature, his ability to look outside himself and be grateful for his daughters lives and the chance to save other loved ones. Amazing.
I know from my own grief that grief is not a linear process. It ebbs and flows and knocks you off course when you don’t expect it. There’s anger and sadness, loneliness, laughter through tears and often gratitude. My sense was that Gratitude is what helped this man pull himself out of bed in the morning after losing his two hearts.
As we were getting into bed that night, I could not stop thinking about John and his story. I could not shake the feeling that I was blessed to meet John. I felt I witnessed the sacred journey of a man forever changed by tragedy.
I like to read before bed, so I start to read a blog post by one of my favorites, Leonie Dawson. Her blog that day was titled “my brother died. what a miracle.” In her eassy she talks about when her brother unexpectedly died in an accident when she was 14, she learned important life lessons. She learned life isn’t guaranteed and that sometimes the worst things that happen can be the best.
I reflect on my day and the contrasts between the death of a mother/grandmother who lived a full life and died at an old age and the sudden loss of two teenage girls who didn’t get to live their life out. I am reminded of my dear mentor, Zoe, who died too young, I recall how angry I was at her after my childhood friend, Michele, my best friend, died of breast cancer at 45.
Zoe told me that one day I will look at the loss of Michele as a “gift”.
In that moment, or quite frankly, for years afterwards, I could not fathom what she meant. All I saw was stars as I felt like screaming at her, “HOW COULD THIS BE A GIFT? MY BEST FRIEND IS GONE! WE WON”T BE ABLE to SIT ON THE PORCH AND WATCH OUR GRANDKIDS TOGETHER”.
I now understand and embrace what Zoe meant. Michele’s death deeply changed me.
It is a gift.
Leonie adresses this “gift” of grief in her blog. I ponder John and how he is able to find grace and gratitude, so close to his loss. We are given one precious life on this earth. None of us can escape experiences that test our resilience and strength.
Everyone has their own 9/11. Everyone.
How we individually respond and how we support each other in our communities matter. We never know when someones 9/11 is fresh and raw. We never know until we reach out and actually talk to each other. Be kind. Listen. If we don’t put down our phones, and we keep rushing from one thing to the next, with no room for spontaneity, always striving for the next thing- We will rob ourselves of the moments that provide deep connection. If we don’t slow down and pay attention to what is directly in front of us, we may never meet someone like John. Someone who could use an ear to listen, but in the end you are the one who has been deeply touched.