But one day, you'll find yourself as the Dead Parent Mentor. It isn't a glamorous position. It isn't something that they write a manual about - but they should. It doesn't even pay well. At least not in cash currency. It's just that. Dead. Parent. Mentor.
Don't worry, there are perks. You can share terrible "My Mom" or "Dead Dad" jokes. Don't make that face at me. Until you've made the "Sorry your Dad calls you too much, mine doesn't get good cell service down there. He's dead." joke? You have no idea how satisfying it can be. And there's that terrible sense of satisfaction that you have in knowing that all the grief you've felt wasn't in vain. You can use your "steps of death" to help another person. (Pro tip: mine is an escalator. Mainly because I am lazy and also because sometimes I run down them and it's hard as hell to escape still going up.)
It's undeniable that sharing your grief with another human being is a bond that is special. It's weird. It's totally indescribable. Sometimes it's beautiful. Sometimes it's exactly what you need. Other times it's like pouring salt in a wound. Only it's a wound you opened yourself. And sometimes it hurts more than the first time. It's not a Bryan Adams song. It cuts like a knife. But it doesn't always feel so good. But then it does. But you can't deny the inevitable heartbreak that follows it. It isn't even for yourself, anymore. It's for that person. Because you know the good days can lull you into a false sense of comfort. And that there's a bad day up ahead. But you don't say that. Because that would make you a dick. And because you care. More than you should. Because you know. There's a dull ache in your heart. One that you can't touch. Because you know that, two years later - where you are now - they'll still have those moments where you're driving in your car. And it suddenly hits you. That they're gone. They're still gone. And you wonder how you could have ever forgotten it. And then you start to question if it's too soon to forget for a whole day and feel happy. Is that okay? Is that allowed? And why isn't there a damn manual? You'll still wonder, two years later - where is that manual? Why didn't someone write it for me?
Grief strips you down. It leaves you bare. And it didn't even attempt to buy you dinner first. So reliving it, even years later, makes you feel cold. It makes goosebumps form on your skin. Just like when you strip down. But it also shows you the true colors of people. Of those you care about. Of those you thought cared for you. Your friends. Your family. But mainly yourself. You think that grief is about how you feel for another person. About how much you loved that person. But grief also teaches you just who you are, as a human. It shows you if you can make it. And you can. And you will. And you'll pick up people along the way - those who understand you, who care, those who can literally feel your pain. And those people are the ones who two years down the road won't forget you. They won't forget that you have grief. They'll check in on you. They'll share a terrible Dead Dad joke with you. And they'll laugh, even if they think: what is wrong with her? Some people forget, after a few weeks. After months. Definitely by the time a year has hit. They'll forget. But you can't blame them. They don't feel the grief. Not the way your fellow members of the Dead Parent club do.
I remember, when my father died, someone reading a long letter from someone welcoming my mother to the widow club. I was appalled. I was almost offended. If I had feelings, that is. But now I get it. It's true. Grief pushes people away. Grief makes some people vanish. But it also makes you a part of a club of those who understand. (And no, they don't all have to be part of the dead parent club, we call those people allies.)
I've broken down the way Dead Parent club works. It's like the movie Mean Girls. There's clearly divided sections, segregated by tables. There are those who sit at the Angry Table. They're angry. They don't understand how people can still be alive when their loved one was the most amazing and clearly the biggest loss to the world. They gravitate towards people who are angry. Because there's power in numbers. That power is loud. It's fierce. And it is mad.
Then there's the sad table. They still tear up, years later, at the mention of Mother's Day. These people are kind and soft and calm. They say things like: it gets easier. While wiping their own tears away. They will be the ones you call when you need a shoulder to literally cry on.
There's the oblivious ones. They act as if nothing has happened. People wonder how and why they're so strong. Where do they find the power to get through the day? Because they are still ignoring it. There are three things that don't go away: a toothache, pregnancy, and a dead loved one. People don't stay at this table forever, it's a transitioning table. They move to either angry, sad, or inappropriate table quickly.
Which leads me to my table: the inappropriate table. I sit at the head of it. We make bad jokes, we often make others feel uncomfortable. But mainly: we don't worry about steps. We don't worry about the normal stages of grief. And we rarely worry about being politically correct. If you know me and you become a part of this table? You know you'll receive terrible pictures of pigs on a spit being cremated. Probably the day before your loved one's funeral. You know I'll send you a picture of my Dad's urn, on my desk at work - right after I pulled him out and told someone "Don't speak to me like that in front of my Dad." We also won't be politically correct when you ask us how things are, or how they will be. We'll tell you: things suck. They will suck. But you'll get through it.
Being a member of the Dead Parent Club isn't going to make you famous. It isn't going to make you look amazing at parties. But it will make you realize that you aren't alone. Even when you feel alone. It will hurt when someone you know goes through the same situation. You'll find yourself driving around the block a few extra times on a night that you've gotten bad news about a friend, knowing his family will experience what you did. And all you know how to do for the moment is turn up the radio, sing loudly, and dance it out while driving around the block for 15 minutes after you should be home.
And then you come inside, and you sit down at the table. You make an inappropriate joke. And you're home. For better or for worse? That's your table. It's a fun table to sit at, if you have to choose a table. And if you do? You can come sit at my table. I'll save you a spot. Because as much as you think that being a mentor is a thankless job? The people who sit at your table may just be mentoring you, too. So don't take their lunch money. They're here to help. Even if you didn't know you needed
it.
And on Wednesdays - we wear black. Like my Dad's soul. Because you know. He's dead. And soot-y, now.
No comments:
Post a Comment