Loss

It's been a tough week. Another one. Between Dad's heart attack and me getting sick last week, we've now gone from insult to injury, so to speak. Annika came down with what I had and has had a dreadful 24 hours. Fortunately she's sleeping now and seems to have the 102.8 degree fever on the run. I hope. I'm also keeping my fingers crossed that the little food she ate this evening actually stays down.

And into this, my mother called to say we lost my great aunt, Lucy D'Errico, today after a long illness.

Then Amity texted me while I was on the phone with my mother. One of her former students died in a car wreck this morning.

So all at once, we're in the same place, but very different places, dealing with a complex of messy emotions. Amity blogged it out in a touching post, On Grief, and as usual she inspired me to work it out for myself.

I tried to leave the following letter in the comments to her post. But I realized it's a blog post in its own right, (and I couldn't get the damned word verification to work on the Mac when I posted the comment) so I've repeated it here. Be sure to check out Amity's post as well. :)


I'm working on this myself right now, so I'm thinking of you, and of your community.

My dad's heart attack last week was entirely sudden, and caused a great deal of shock. I certainly felt something close to grief, waiting to find out if he was going to make it, willing him to survive with every ounce of energy I could project his way. But is it actually grief if you don't lose someone?

There's also my great aunt's passing today (at 88, at the end of a long debilitating illness) that was anything but sudden. In fact, it's a marvel she fought as long as she did, as frail as she was. But I know my grandmother is grieving tonight, deeply, as she's lost another sister, her fourth, another 80-year friendship -- even while she consoles herself that Lucy isn't suffering any longer.

And then there is the senseless, that's usually sudden, shocking, saddening, as was was what happened today in your town. The only lessons here are the hardest ones, and there aren't any comforts -- not even the cold ones.

The shock of my father's illness yielded new attitudes about our health, as a family. And we are all intensely grateful and relieved to have been spared the onslaught of the grief we would have felt had we lost Dad. And so we are comforted.

But in Dixfield tonight there is little comfort. You can't make sense of this, which is what makes it the worst kind of grief: it is sudden, it is pervasive, and it is entirely, terrifyingly random. It strikes at will, and it has little mercy. I hope its presence is not long felt, and that something comes from your tragedy, if only to provide some relief.

Love you. Thanks for letting me ramble. ;)