Mostly a Dark Road
This is the way to healing
Things falling apart is a kind of testing and also a kind of healing. We think that the point is to pass the test or to overcome the problem, but the truth is that things don’t really get solved. They come together and they fall apart. Then they come together again and fall apart again. It’s just like that. The healing comes from letting there be room for all of this to happen: room for grief, for relief, for misery, for joy. — Pema Chödrön, When Things Fall Apart: Heart Advice for Difficult Times
This is mostly a dark road. The tour down this poetry lane shows the decline of my father’s health and our complicated relationship. I am sharing recent poetry, but the road doesn’t begin here. And as I move through this part of my life, I am realizing that grief ebbs and flows and that death does not end a relationship, only changes it. I hope you and I will find glimpses of healing and light throughout the writing. It is impossible to write all of the story here. Pieces of my memoir gather momentum and even organization, but it will be a long time until anything big emerges whole. Thank you for taking your time to read my story.
A bit of background to all of this:
My father died in February of this year. It is jolting to even write that because really my father was always dying. He had a suicidal episode in front of me (and my mom and sister) when I was 11. He engaged in risky life choices and behaviors, and I do not know how many times he has come close to death. He was on suicide watch in the hospital (again) after overdosing recently.
“The Heavy” is really just about how hard it has been to carry this relationship around.
Here is an angry poem/memoir about our complicated relationship:
There have been mysteries about his health my whole life, but he did not kill himself in February, as far as I can tell. His heart and lungs were diseased and just done. I got to say goodbye, even though I have been waiting for him to be gone/come back/say goodbye forever, as expressed here in “The Long Goodbye.”
All of this is a circular road, and my sister and I really know the way.
He died February 19, 2020. He was 72.
My sister and I spent a long time picking up the pieces. And there were so many pieces. A wild goose chase of puzzles. We are still sorting it out. “Tell Me Sister” is about everything my beloved best friend and I have been through together.
And then the week after returning home, the pandemic happened, and I have just had to be still. I am not sure yet whether some huge grief wave will suddenly knock me down, or if having this time at home has let me ease through this transition.
“Dark” marks the day after I got the call from a chaplain at the hospital, informing me of the code blue:
Finding my father’s end of life care directives in a mysterious “silver briefcase” was made even more absurd in the one bedroom apartment he shared with his predeceased partner. Neither one of them were capable of letting much go. “Humane” and “Narrative of Necessity” are about life and its complications.
“Hearts” was about the potential for my dad to recover. He had DNR orders on file, but he was intubated and in the ICU for almost 2 weeks.
I wrote “You Missed the Bay” when my sister and I took a break from the hospital to walk along Tampa Bay. There was so much beauty that my dad had in his life, but he chose to ignore it and remain miserable.
“Absence Made Permanent”, “What Was Your Life?”, and “I Choose to Forgive” are poems about my journey through grief.
This was a painful but needed road to travel today. Thank you so much for reading.
© Samantha Lazar 2020
Thank you so much to Christina M. Ward for the Poetry Lane Prompt in The POM:
This piece also fits with the poetry theme of the week: Roads #roadsweek