There are few things harder than seeing people you care for in pain, especially if it's the type of pain that you can't do a damn thing about. The type of pain that comes from losing a parent - you can't touch it, you can't sooth it, you can't even put your sympathy into words.
If there's one thing I have learned in the last few years, it's that words are sometimes hollow. You mean well, you try to say the right things - but they are, in the end, only words - just whispers in the wind, things people won't even remember after a funeral service. But we still find ourselves trying to comfort someone we care for.
Tonight, I attended a wake for a friend's father. I tried my hardest to not say "it's okay" or "he's in a better place" or my favorite "he's no longer suffering." As a caretaker, as she was, that one hurts the worst sometimes. We know their lives still had meaning. We know they enjoyed their days. And we know when they wanted to continue their fight as long as they did. The whispers of "you'll have more time" or even "now you can have a life" are all well meant. But it stings. Your loved one was your life. And often, you wouldn't trade that for the world - the stolen moments, the late night laughs, the seconds you shared with them. Loving and caring for someone enough to be with them in their last days and weeks - that is a life. It's your life. And that's okay.
The 3 a.m. cheese plates, the late night "I want a piece of gum, get me some gum?" They aren't moments that others know of or regard as a life. But it is. It's your life as a caretaker. You don't measure the meaning of your life in dates, dinners out, or coffee with friends - you count making it through another day as a victory. An entire week is a battle won. And when it ends, there is silence.
Tonight, my dear friend asked me if it gets easier while we knelt in front of her father's casket. My heart shattered into a million pieces, my stomach dropped, and my words caught in my throat for a second.
I believe in honesty. I trust facts. I don't think lying to anyone is worthwhile. But in that moment, I wanted nothing more than to say "it will all be okay."
Instead, I was truthful. It isn't going to get easier to accept someone you loved with every fiber of your being gone. But getting through a day without them will. You won't magically understand your place in life. You can't fathom how hard it is to find your footing, understand your life purpose, and fill the silence and the void left. But you will. Your life isn't without meaning. And it will, in time, be easier to see that and feel that.
But does it get easier? No. Instead, you get tougher. You grow stronger. Your resolve hardens. You realize that with all you've been through - you can do this. Your father is gone. Yes. Nothing can change this. No amount of tears, anger, yelling into a running shower, or bargaining can rectify that situation. But the final lesson your loved one taught you? Is just how strong you are. That you can and will survive. You will find your footing. It's the final gift they leave you - the understanding that living without them is hard, but you are stronger than the grief.
And when you need your support system, they're right there - with their hands held out to pull you up. And, if they're anything like me? Probably around the corner, rewriting the pamphlets at the funeral home entitled "Losing Your Mother" (at the mall).
