Good Grief

Dad died.  Unexpectedly.  Well, he was 94 years old and can one ever die unexpectedly at 94.  Probably not.  It's just that up until the last day he was doing fine for a man his age.  He was able to go for his walks.  His mind was as sharp as could be.

Dad came to live with us for the last month.  We'd hoped it might have been more.  He had shared that following Mom's death he was becoming increasingly lonely.  That's the problem of growing older.  One by one the companions of your life die, and you are left either seeking other companionship, or resolving to make the best of it alone.  I determined that the last thing I'd want would be is a lonely old man when I died, and so I invited Dad to make his home with us, surrounded by family.

I think the last few months were the best one could hope for.  This summer he had spent most of time at the lake place, having the opportunity to see all of  his children there.  And then he was with us.  In the end, all was well with Dad.  Is all well with me?

I find myself wondering how my grief will play out when coupled with being bipolar.

I am deeply grateful for the last evening with Dad.  Thanks in part to his hearing aids being cleaned up and checked out, he was able to converse normally.  The opportunity was not lost.  Prior to my going to bed he came out and asked if we could talk.  What is your favorite Bible verse?  As the conversation progressed Dad did something unusual.  He made the effort to get up out of his chair and come over and sit next to me on the couch.  There was a closeness we had not experienced together, perhaps ever.  We were at one and the same time father and son, and colleagues in ministry.  "I hope we can have many more conversations like this, Dave."  "Me too, Dad."

I only wish I'd said "I love you" or gave him a hug then.  I didn't.

And so the next morning the grieving began.  I was able to sit with him following his death.  Now, too late, the "I love you" was spoken.  A kiss goodbye.

And I wrote the sermon for his  funeral, based on the conversation we had shared.  Next came the fulfilling of a promise I made to him, which was to make an urn for him and mom.  Mom's urn was too small to contain both their ashes, too large to allow room for a second urn in the niche, so the urn I turned above is large enough for both of them.  As I began the process of building it, tears flowed.

I'd spent the summer remodeling the house in preparation for his moving in.  This was different.  So final.  And a goodbye.  And yet one more way to say "I love you, Dad."

One of the thoughts that came to me, with the death of the last of our parents, was that I might be next.  I am at the very least part of the 'oldest generation' in the family.  Other thoughts as well have been stirred.  Might this be the last time all of the siblings are together at one time?  Oh, we'll see each other individually, but will it be possible in the future to all be together?

Dad's hat and coat still hang in the hallway.  I want them there.  For a while at least.

There had been a distance between us that needn't have been there between a Father and Son.  One would think that my having followed him into the ministry would have changed that, but the distance remained.  Part of that distance was simply a symptom of being Norwegian Americans.  We're not known for being overly affectionate.

But if I'm totally honest, the distance between us goes way back to my childhood.  I was arrested for  shoplifting.  Dad came down hard on me and declared that I'd permanently damaged my character, that I'd always be a criminal from that time forth and forever more.  I turned elsewhere for affection ever since.

Part of the grief I experience now is concerning not his death, but the missed opportunity to have a better and richer relationship with him throughout his life.  It could have been better.  But sometimes the emotional scars of childhood are difficult to overcome.  Part of the challenge for me is that when I turned elsewhere for affection, the first person to offer it was a band director who subsequently sexually abused me.  I had so longed for affection that I was unable to recognize the abuse for what it was until over 20 years later.  It was not until my own children were the age I was when  I was abused, that my eyes were opened.  What if someone treated my children the way I'd been treated.  "I'd kill them!" was the thought that came to mind.  Well, at least press charges.

Part of the distance between my Dad and I was because the stern judgment Dad made of my character after being arrested for shoplifting set me up for the abuse that was to follow.  Father's are supposed to protect their children.  I think I've forgiven him.  But that's easier said than done.  There is something to be said for years of psychological therapy.

Now there is just grief.  Both for the Dad I lost, and the Dad I never had.  I wonder what affect Dad's losing his own mother during his childhood had on his emotional development.  Alice had contracted tuberculosis, spent time in a sanitarium, and then subsequently died when he was about 12, curiously enough, about the same time in his life as the abuse occurred in my life.  Two wounded souls.

And we both found ourselves called into the ministry to care for other wounded souls.

There's something fearful about grief when one is bipolar.  Will it trigger something far worse.  I've achieved functional stability, but grief can destabilize.  Will the medications I'm on prevent a relapse?  Will I be offered the opportunity to experience 'good grief'?  Or will circumstances rage out of control.  Thankfully, I've maintained therapeutic relationships.  There is some comfort in that.

In so many ways Dad lived a remarkable life.  Much of what I am is a reflection of the gifts he and Mom gave us throughout the years.  I've joked that I inherited my Mom's bad knees, and my Dad's bad heart (we've both had mitral valve surgery, a genetic condition).  But there is much good I've received, as well.  My resourcefulness and independence are gifts of my parents.  I'm a builder like my Dad.  And faith.  In the midst of all the hurt in life, I have faith.  Dad's gift.  And that is sufficient.