Filled with imperfect thought

I first heard about the purported Five Stages of Grief in March, while watching Scrubs. It was a good episode. John Boy's Mom, who was a patient at Sacred Heart Hospital, was dying. It wasn't really John Boy's Mom, just the actress that played her. I have a hard time thinking of Michael Learned as anyone other than Olivia 'Livie' Walton. I guess I'm in denial, which is the first stage of grief.

As for the other stages, I think for the past six months I've been engaged in what could best be described as a circle jerk with stages two and three. Anger and bargaining if you believe in the Five Stages of Grief. Not to be a contrarian, but I'm not sure that I do. Perhaps because I'm hung up on their chronology? In my head one turns into two, two into three, three into four, four into five. That is not what has happened with me. In fact, when Mom died I coudn't pass GO, instead I went back to stage one. Denial.

I didn't realize I was in denial though, which is why for my money denial is top of the pops in the five stages of grief hit parade? It rocks. You are oblivious.

A week or so ago, my Lovely Bride and I were talking in the kitchen when she told me that she didn't think that I had got the fact that Mom had died. That it hadn't fully hit me yet. Excuse me? I didn't get the fact that Mom had died. Was she nuts? How could I not get that Mom had died. I had been with her those final days. I had seen such terrible things. I had held her hand when she died. I had seen them do all the shit they to a dead body after she died. Hell, I even followed Mom out of the house, and watched them load her into the van that took her body to the funeral home. It was raining. Isn't that a nice touch? Imagine me, standing in the rain, at the edge of my parents driveway, watching my Mom being driven away forever, in the back of a Dodge Caravan. Seriously. A Dodge Caravan. Fuck me.

Then after Mom died, I feel as if I've done nothing but deal with her death in my attempt to try and help those around me. My Dad. Grandma. Boy(s.) Even my Lovely Bride who had the audacity to tell me that I had yet to fully get that Mom had died.

There lies the greatness of stage one. My denial had me denying that I was in denial.

I finally passed GO, on Tuesday, November 7th. Election day. That Monday, November 6th was my parents 47th wedding anniversary. We had seen Dad that weekend. Mom too. Dad was taking her cremated remains with him to Oklahoma.

I was thinking about all of that as I drove back to work from voting that Tuesday afternoon when my iPod shuffled to a song that proved once and for all, that my Lovely Bride had been correct. I had been in denial. I didn't fully get the fact that Mom had died.

Listening to that song in my car, I left stage one, skipping past stage two and three landing smack dab in stage four. Depression.

How do I know? Why else would I cry while listening to what has to be the sappiest song ever recorded. I think it is safe to say, you are depressed when The Living Years by Mike + The Mechanics makes you sob.

Until I BLOG again...It's to late when we die.

When the day is long

When E was a toddler, he had the curious habit of watching movies that were not appropriate to his age. Not to imply the Boy was sitting around in diapers watching porn, or even hard R movies. Nothing like that. There were just a handful of movies that would stop him in his tracks enough that he would sit and watch them. In fact, he would watch them for a long time, considering his age, and attention span. It was odd.

Fast forward to now, or what was now a few days ago. I have been trying to recall something that I felt, or sensed would help us help E with his grief. I felt this memory, which I couldn't quite grasp, would help us better understand what E was fighting against, when he got stuck in his moments. Lately, we've had a lot of moments.

On Halloween E got stuck in such a moment. It was bad. So much so that I thought he would not be trick-or-treating that night. Trying to save Halloween for him, I took him back to his room and tried to help him through the anger, the sadness, so he could go trick-or-treating with Wy Wy who was ready to hit the streets. In his room, with just us, E absolutely lost it, which, funnily enough, is where I found it. The memory.

Coincidentally (or would you call it fate?) one of the movies that the toddler version of E would sit and watch, again and again, was Four Weddings and a Funeral. The poem Funeral Blues by W.H. Auden that was read at the funeral was what I had been trying to remember.

That poem, for me, expresses a grief that he can't yet express. Hell, it expresses my grief too. But this isn't about me. It is about E, who is having a hard time reconciling in his mind how you can have fun, be happy, doing something like trick-or-treating when his Granny died. How can he play with toys, things that make him happy, things she gave him, because she died. How can you go to school, and have fun at recess, when everyone around you doesn't get your Granny died? How do make your way in a world where everyone isn't sad, or the same kind of sad as you, because your Granny died?

Who would have ever guessed that one of the hardest parts about Mom's death, would be watching the Boy(s) suffer through their grief? Hearing E crying in his room at night, trying to go to sleep. Knowing full well, that when we go to him, and ask, what is wrong, his answer will be Granny died. I usually lay with him after those times, in a vain attempt to make him feel better by my proximity. I'm sure it helps some, but truthfully, no matter how close I get, I can't get into his head. Into his heart. I can't take away the pain. Even if I could, I'm not sure that would be a wise choice. He needs to grieve. We all need to grieve. If only that knowledge made it easier. It doesn't. Nothing could ever prepare me for the pain I felt when I saw him take Mom's photo inside that sailboat frame and clutch it like a teddy bear as he turned over onto his side, and cried himself to sleep.

Until I BLOG again... and the night, the night is yours alone