The Joy of Grief

Yesterday evening, at approximately 6:30 pm EST, my stepfather passed away after a brief stay in a local hospital.  He was 86 years old.  His is a happy tale, though, so I thought I would share it here. 

My birth father passed some years ago, and my mother struggled to recover from her grief.    I've written before here about how my father's passing affected me, but eventually - as these stories tend to go - the sharp edge wore away from my grief and was replaced by nostalgic remembrances of a life well-lived; a story well told.    My mother, however, felt differently. 

For her, life seemed to come to a standstill.  She was ill prepared to manage the tasks that come with caring for a loved one's remains, and a lot of the work in that regard fell to me as an only child.     She retreated from life for a while, and the smiles that so often lit up her face fell to shadow.    Small tasks become unmanageable for her, and for a while I truly wondered if she'd make it.  But then, slowly, the sun began to shine again.  Not brightly; not all at once.  But bit by bit, over the course of time, she slowly became herself once more, as she learned that life moves forward at a pace all its own, mostly without consulting us for our opinions on it. 

Fast forward 12 years and she met a dashing older gentlemen who shared her values and believed that she hung the moon.  He believed it so much that he managed to convince her that she hung it, too.   He quite literally swept her off her feet.  Since my mother has always struggled to see herself as valued and worthwhile, this transition was new and welcomed.   I was grateful for his presence in her life, even if I wondered in the back of my mind how long they'd have together, since he was nearly 10 years her senior.   

We talked about this once, she and I - about what might happen or how she might feel if he passed away while she still lived.  She admitted that she was afraid of grief - afraid to feel again its deep claws dig their way into her soul.    But ultimately, the gifts he offered her - things like appreciation, respect, deep love - were gifts that she knew she needed, and I think she came to a point where she recognized that life measures quality, not length of days.    So she took the plunge.  In september 2023, he asked her to marry him, and she accepted.   The rest is very much like a fairy tale. 

Until about a week ago, when he was hospitalized due to cardiac issues.  At the age of 86, it's hard to imagine that there wouldn't be cardiac issues.   No one was expecting it; but no one was surprised either.   We all assumed though that he would pull through; he'd been hospitalized on three other occasions while they were together, and had come through those just fine. But something went wrong, as things tend to do sometimes, and after a brief period of intubation, a decision was made - guided by a preauthorized directive from him - to remove all artifical measures of sustaing vital signs and let creation decide next steps.   And decide it did. 

My mother was present with him when his vitals flatlined, and held his hand as he made his passage through the veil.  My mother said she felt the faint flutter of his fingers and the gentle squeeze of his hand on hers just before his pulse faded, and she is comforted with knowing he heard her and felt her there as he made his way onward. 

Now far ahead the Road has gone, and I must follow if I can. 

This is the joy of grief.  It is the remembered moments that are caught in the river of time that flows by, moments that will never again pass our way.  It is the silent watchfulness of a woman by the bedside of her partner as Death takes his other hand. It is the gentle mourning of a mother while her child's heart stops its beats.  It is the poignant recollection of moments strung together by a connecting thread of life.  But there beyond the veil, there where our memories can't follow us, where we go when we complete our work, the mysteries remain - to be discovered when we are likely least prepared and most unwilling, but still required to go.  I think Tolkien's words here are apropos, and they are worth repeating:

The Road goes ever on and on

Out from the door where it began. 

Now far ahead the Road has gone,

And I must follow, if I can,

Pursuing it with eager feet,

Until it joins some larger way

Where many paths and errands meet. 

And whither then? I cannot say. 

Still round the corner there may wait

A new road or a secret gate,

And though I oft have passed them by,

A day will come at last when I

Shall take the hidden paths that run

West of the Moon, East of the Sun.

For my stepfather. 

Until I see him again.