DEATH | GRIEVING

I Didn’t Cry at My Dad’s Funeral

People judged me without asking me why

That person I never met, never will, and have no investment in won a car on The Price is Right.

I instantly balled my eyes out.

A ten-year-old girl, possessed with an old soul, belted out “Ave Maria” in an eerie angelic voice on America’s Got Talent.

More tissues.

A crew of volunteers retrofits a home for ADA compliance to help accident victims navigate their unexpected life circumstances.

My heart raced. Tears rolled down my face of their own accord.

I have no relationship with any of these people.

Yet, instantaneous blathering like an idiot will have me reaching for the Tylenol through my tears. My headache springs to the surface from the surge of rapid reactionary emotion.

Witnessing a total stranger’s triumph reduces me to tears.

Sentimental gestures trigger my tear ducts even if I’m not involved.

I am an Empath.

Knowing this explains my disproportionate reactions to minor happiness or deep angst, which I’ve experienced for years.

I hesitate to watch a video on social media with a touching story of just about anything. The writing is on the wall that I will succumb to the watershed as I hear a tale of triumph or despair.

Stories with emotional pull rattle my soul.

And yet, I didn’t drop a tear as each visitor after visitor came through the line to express their sympathies at my Dad’s passing. “I am so sorry” and “Your Dad was a great man” were repeated over and over in a rhythmic cadence. Heartfelt sentiments filtered in my ears and drove straight in to warm my heart. I smiled, cupped their hand gently in mine, and softly thanked them. Some people needed extra consoling and, I obliged.

Imagine my surprise, shock really, when it drifted back to me how I didn’t grieve. Really?

Statements like that cut me to the quick.

My explanations come easily if I am questioned. I rarely have an issue with communicating. My heart is proudly displayed on my sleeve. When I am not asked questions and assumptions are made, judgments cast, aspersions of my character thrown about, I die a bit inside.

Grief is such an individualized and personal journey.

Had the finger pointers asked, I would have told them that my grief started long before they saw me on that day. The ceremony honoring him as we finally laid him to rest was not the starting point of my pain. Grief had invaded my system for months prior.

My tears and heart-wrenching journey were long in the making. The reality is that pancreatic cancer is a sneaky, ugly, devastating, body-stealing ravager. Pain relief medications can come with the price tag of hallucinations which add insult to injury.

My accusers from the funeral never saw me driving over the bridge from Pennsylvania Hospital to my home in New Jersey with eyes blinded by tears, day by day.

Cancer hid like a snake in the grass. The continual biopsies revealed nothing. That one slide, when it finally bared its ugly, evil, pancreatic cancerous gnarly teeth, showed a few cells.

Punched in the gut and clinging to hope, my grief unpacked its bags and settled right in.

I released my sadness on the 20-minute drives, back and forth from the antiseptic-smelling hospital room, to resume my regular life duties for my two toddler daughters. I donned my happy face, morphed magically into a poser to avoid scaring the bejeezus out of them, and it drained me.

I was living two lives. It was tearing me apart.

The judgmental people were not there when the doctors gave us false hope about hospice and sent everyone home to make my Dad more comfortable. Pancreatic cancer and the potential for a long-term gig do not go hand in hand. We didn’t know.

Those same small-minded people did not help set up his hospital bed in my old bedroom.

There were no lines of people to join us on our rollercoaster ride from hell.

I played housewife and Mommy by day. School, diapers, and meal times would delay and distract me from what the nighttime had in store. I gave kisses goodnight and tucked in my girls. All was well. And, in the dark of night, I would drive to my childhood home.

My position became sleeping on the floor next to my Dad’s bed. Our concern was that he may reject the darkness like many other cancer sufferers. They would not sleep at night for fear they would never wake up again.

His skeletal-like body could not be trusted.

I was a human alarm if his legs swung over the side to rise.

The deep purple carpet was thick and warm. I had chosen it when I was a teen. The white noise of the oxygen machine rocked us to sleep in a macabre version of a baby mobile. It was a familiar surrounding overtaken with a new clinical purpose.

My Mom needed to be able to sleep. The lion’s share of my Dad’s care fell to her during daylight hours. We all needed her; she was our rock. Her bathroom counter became a nursing station to house meds and sterilization products for when she had to redress his port.

And, when he took his last breaths, so dried my final tear-filled jags.

He was at peace.

My grief began long before the funeral. The man I respected had been reduced to a shell. Gone were the ramblin’ wreck from Georgia Tech and the helluva engineer. Illness ensured that he would never be the same.

My role shifted from the part-time caretaker of my Dad, who I deeply loved, to comforting the visitors who came to pay their respects.

I am sorry that you felt like I grieved improperly. Understand that I will never return the favor of a misplaced ill-begotten assessment. Your grief is yours. May your travels be smooth as you watch someone transition to the other side.

It is my choice to recount my journey when I am comfortable doing so.

If you ask me about my Dad, I will happily share stories of his strength and intelligence. I loved our one on one time playing darts in the basement. The bonus was that he got me out of washing dishes after dinner. We were highly competitive. The bullseye only had small remnants of cork remaining after years of successfully hitting our mark.

He instilled in me a sense of self-pride and value. My Dad reminded me that I was worth more. I deserved better than any substandard treatment by the ‘horny hound dogs’ of high school.

He taught me to maintain my car, balance a checkbook, and work hard. He trusted me when I booked a Daddy and Daughter Makeover Day to have his comb-over eliminated. His smile radiated when he was no longer enslaved by his hairstyle. I believe he got taller. My Dad relished being forever free from Vitalis hair spray. He was unencumbered and could play golf in the wind, worry-free.

He was the pillar of a humble and private man. Logical, pragmatic, and drama-free love were his main ingredients.

He unknowingly passed that life recipe on to me.

Just ask me about my Dad.

My answer will be full of his influence. It will not be about his death or whether or not I cried at his funeral.

Honestly, I pray that you never have to suffer, at all, much less through the deaths that are a part of life.

And, yes, death is a part of life.

I didn’t cry at his funeral.

I had my own way of grieving. Once I had released the clutches of the darkness, I welcomed celebrating him and the indelible mark he left on our lives.

You would have known if you had only asked.

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Copyright © 2022 Lisa S. Gerard. All rights reserved.