On love, in loss
The father of my beloved passed away this weekend. We have passed the last few days in a beautiful space, that we call “the farm,” a place he and her mother bought and built for spending the remainder of their lives in beauty and peace, after their three daughters were grown.
Their three daughters are grown, each with partners and careers and lives of their own. He had three grandchildren over the last ten years, and when I fell in love with Elizabeth, he added three more. In the before times, we would all traverse to the farm with all the little people in tow, and the six of them would run, wander and play — the windows in each of the farm houses looking out over them and the laughter and silliness they inevitably created.
In times of loss, we find ourselves drawn back into the roles we filled forever, some given to us by birth order, some by personality, some by natural capacities and talents, some by nature itself. We struggle to do what is best in those roles, and to avoid the pull of years of instinct — at least the instincts that reveal our less patient selves. But those instincts are familiar, and somehow comforting, especially when an important piece of our puzzles is suddenly taken from us, leaving a gaping hole in our hearts, our hopes, the picture of the life and certainty we had.
I am here as a member of the family. I was welcomed with kind and open arms (after a trial period to ensure I had the love, respect and joy in my heart to take care of their amazing child. That I meant to. That I would.) So I am not an interloper here, but I don’t have all of the stories and memories that make up a family of 45 years. I don’t have the knowledge of their father’s hands when he held theirs, the details of how he loved them, in the way that fathers do, somehow confounding and comforting daughters all at the same time.
But I know some things. I know that he was kind and generous. I know that he was proud of his girls, and that he loved his wife. I know that he built a life that allowed him to take care of all of them, and made him feel that they were safe in this world.
He was a helper, a doctor, and had a mind that searched and demanded answers and information, even and especially when they were hard to come by. He was stubborn and tenacious, maybe even relentless, and did not accept that problems sometimes would not have solutions.
His body did not adhere to the demands of his mind and will all of the time, though, a fact that frustrated him beyond words. The mysteries of that experience were intellectually complicated, but physically exhausting. He struggled with pain, fatigue, anger that he couldn’t solve it and that his own body deprived him of capacity — to work, to live, to move in the ways he wanted and planned.
Over the past five years, I have come to understand this. I joke that my last baby broke me; after he was born one weird, awful symptom showed up, then another and another. The worst of them, practically, were pain and fatigue. And not just “pain” and “fatigue,” but in doses so dramatic that I spent days in bed. Pain I couldn’t even explain; it didn’t feel like my joints, my muscles, my nerves exactly. Sometimes it was just certain limbs. Sometimes it was more. It became more and more constant, and it felt debilitating and degrading, not to be able to move, mother, work, or show up in the ways I expected, in the ways I just knew others expected.
I felt crazy. No one could figure it out. I saw doctors, specialists, massage therapists. I drank too much, because that seemed to be the only thing that dulled it. I couldn’t voice what I was experiencing appropriately, and because there were no answers, I felt very alone. How can people show empathy without explanation? There was no diagnosis for so long, and test results often didn’t match the symptoms. I wondered if I wasn’t losing my mind — and then the depression and anxiety all of it created suggested maybe I was. When I felt good, I wondered if I imagined it all. I had good days, weeks, sometimes months. And then everything could change without notice. And it never arrived with a stated expiration date, so the enduring became the thing. Along with the resentment. And the loneliness. Of not being able to explain or understand what my own body was doing or why.
But Elizabeth’s dad understood this. He felt all of that, too. He assured me I wasn’t crazy, and shared with me ideas of questions to ask, things to read, tests to demand. He recognized that even in our world of modern medicine and technology, asking for answers isn’t enough. Relentlessness is required. Intelligence isn’t enough, focus isn’t assured. He made me feel understood, believed, and not crazy. He gave me hope.
I’m sure he did this for too many people to count over the years. I’m also sure he drove people nuts with his stubbornness sometimes. Men sometimes seem unable to access the obvious emotions to display kindness and sweetness — I’m not suggesting he couldn’t — but those qualities show up in practical ways. Loyalty to employees. Setting up the gate opener in the cars of all his kids and kids-in-law. Sharing his knowledge and philosophies, serving people who literally couldn’t breathe. His legacy is everywhere, especially in this place. Breath is life, and his job was to make sure it continued. Here at the farm, everyone can breathe — and sometimes at least I realize that I seem to have forgotten how, until the exhalation calms my tense, anxious body and I look around at all the trees, the deer, and then the sunsets.
Grief can feel so piercing, and so crippling. A laugh can turn into a sob (but thankfully, also vice versa). You don’t know from one minute to the next where you will find yourself, and time seems to stop altogether. Last week feels like a year ago. And the hours go on in a long, extended mocking of our abilities to heal. But you also don’t want to heal, because it feels like if you let time pass, the person will be ever more gone from you. You want to stay close to them, and the point in time you had them. How can you forgive yourself for letting the days come, one after the other, or for living without them?
I can see their father in each of the girls, in the different ways that a parent’s eyes, sense of humor, kindness and quirks are instilled in a child. I can see how much his wife loved and cared for him, no matter the circumstance. I can see that the hole in their puzzle is stark and real. But from my own distance, I can also see how they will begin to paint beauty and new pieces around it. How they will honor what is lost by how they live, the stories they tell, the love they take with them and give without condition to others. I see how his grandchildren will go on and fill some of the spaces and cracks with their own tenaciousness and joy, and how everyone will learn to breathe again.
Elizabeth and I got married four months ago, here on the farm, in the middle of a pandemic. He had the grounds cleared, the trees trimmed, he created the space that we filled with flowers and lights, music, dancing and joy. He walked his oldest daughter down the aisle, and watched as we stood under our wedding tree and celebrated the love we have. In the months beforehand, he was excited for the preparations, and wanted so much to ensure things were just as we wanted them. They were, under the circumstances — but the truth is that it was perfect despite the times, the missing loved ones, the Texas heat in November.
Loss cannot be stopped; nor can life. It seems more than we can bear, to live, love, grieve, remember, to feel frustration, hope, searing pain. But we make food for the grieving, we eat the food and know we are loved. We get up, on the days we can, and move through the day, until we remember how. We worry about what we might forget, and cling to each passing memory. We laugh as we remember sometimes, and secretly know one day it will be less painful to do it.
Elizabeth’s dad was lovely and human. He was incredibly smart, and he was giving. He had habits and quirks that sometimes made him difficult, and his body failed him sooner than is fair. He was loving, and he was loved so much, by so many. I am glad I got to know him. Time will fold over on itself and the puzzle will, too, but both were made better for him, his gifts, his family and his love. The sun will set today on the farm, like it always has before, and he will always be a part of it.
