postscript

"According to most studies, people's number one fear is public speaking. Number two is death. Death is number two. Does that sound right? This means to the average person, if you go to a funeral, you're better off in the casket than doing the eulogy!" -Jerry Seinfeld

griefamundo and girl power

Yesterday I attended the funeral of a friend's husband (well, an ex, but much-loved one). 

I was consumed with her grief, and that of her son and daughter, children who can't possibly comprehend the road ahead without their father.

Russell's big adult wooden coffin sat, ironically, in the exact spot that my little Riley's white child-sized coffin sat four years ago, in the same chapel, the same putrid green walls, the same hideous curtains and pelmets and stupid fake smiling funeral director. It was a confronting day for me, but for Tracey and her kids it was excruciating. 

I taught her beautiful daughter in year one, 2004, a horrible year for me personally, that manifested itself with the hideous grief of losing my own child. Tracey was one of the many special people who showed themselves to be thoughtful, kind in the extreme, funny, black(humoured, not coloured), irreverent and just there for me whenever I needed her along with her large posse of girls. It began with a huge basket of goodies, dropped at my door, lovingly chosen and delivered with the love and compassion that I had never seen before from this group of girls, but have never stopped observing and experiencing since.

Dear Trace,

I'm sorry.

I'm sorry that your loss feels so great,  gross, and grabs you greedily with a vice-like grip.

I'm sorry that you feel grey, grey, the greyest grey, black charcoal clouds hang over your every breathing moment.

I'm sorry you have to be brave, gravely faced with the grotesque griffin of grief that wants to disable you and take away your spirit. 

I'm sorry that this feeling grips you sometimes for days, weeks and leaves periodically only to return so quickly with more ferocity.

I'm sorry you feel groggy, paralysed and grounded with grief in your guts, your heart and your head.

I am sorry that you have go to bed, not to sleep, but to face the loss over and over again, a horrible recurring wakeful nightmare.

I'm sorry that your children are feeling all of these emotions along with you. You want to protect them from that. I'm sorry that you can't.

I'm sorry that there is no way out of the darkness, other than to go through it, experience all of its hideous tentacles, like a surreal dark deep sea monster that engulfs you and won't let go, suffocating you in its grip.

Feel blessed, girl, that along this dark, black, grey and sometimes lonely road, there will be people who will amaze you with their support and dignified graceful way of just being there, physically and spiritually. These people will carry you through.....they will not care if you are down, depressed, irritable, irrational, obnoxious, angry, in denial, or downright self-centred. They will love you through it all. They are the voice of reason and reality. They are the word of truth in a chaotic world. If you can find a connection to these people, a small thread at first, and then a web of support that will develop exponentially, one day you will realise that the unmanageable heavy load you feel is unfairly placed upon you will dissipate until......slowly, perhaps years later, you are able to experience the feeling that the grief and deep sorrow has turned into something a little more like normal (well, a little more than normal, but still manageable) sadness. One day, I assure you, you will look in the mirror, and not see that face that haunts you today, the weight of sadness reflected in your every cell.

I speak for all the girls, when I say that we are there for you, whenever you need us. Whenever Shelby and Connor need us, just whenever. We consider it a privilege to be able to share your load, which we know is more than any one person can bear on their own.