On A Year of Grief

Phil has been gone a year. (I wrote of that horrible day in my post On Death and Dying. You can read it under the May 2013 tab to the right) The grief and pain of his passing has dimmed only slightly for me. It is all so fresh; the phone call from Michael, the agonizing days leading up to the funeral, the funeral itself.  

It was as you would imagine it would be when you bury a beautiful young man of 24. I arrived early to support Michael and as I walked in, he nodded toward the chapel. I entered and saw the open casket. I walked through the empty room, flashing back to when my Dad laid in this same room two years before. And then, there was Phil. Laying perfectly relaxed with that sly smile on his lips, dressed in his favorite band tee and jeans. “Oh, Phil,” I wailed to the empty room. “Honey, get up, please, please get up!” How can this be happening? The question reverberated through my mind repeatedly. The un-realness of it all.

The visions of the day haunt me still. The parade of friends standing in disbelief over his open casket with tears streaming down their faces; his co-workers from the Abbey staring in silence; his long time girl friend with whom he had just parted, being supported by her friends. One young man standing before the coffin alone, crying with bewildered disbelief on his face. His words echoed mine. “Why doesn’t he just get up?” he sobbed. The chapel was filled with continual sobbing as Michael and Phil’s music played in the background.

For me, watching my son (and Nick) wracked with sobs for two plus hours, well, it was excruciating. He and Nick were huddled together in the front row. Of those who spoke during the service, many spoke directly to Michael, giving him encouragement to continue on, to continue with their music. Afterward, I marveled at how people would go from Phil’s parents, to the coffin, and then to Michael. The line in front of him was as long as the one in front of Phil’s parents. Some he cried with, some he couldn’t even lift his head to look at them. They spoke words to him trying to console him, but he was inconsolable. 

We, the mothers, clung to each other. Nick’s Mom and I cried complicated tears; our boys are the ones remaining, yet we are inexplicably tied to and share in the grief with Phil’s Mom, and Aaron’s Mom, and Stephen’s Mom. Because, you love your children’s friends as your own…you just do. Aaron’s Dad stood before Michael caressing Michael’s head, kissing him. My heart broke at the tenderness. Aaron’s Mom and I clung to each other crying down each other’s neck.

And then there was Phil’s Mom, burying her son on Mother’s Day, hugging me tightly, whispering words of encouragement for my grief. “No, no,” I whispered back, “I should be comforting you.” “Oh, but you are,” came her reply. Heart. Broken.

The sadness of all this crept up on me last week. I had been counseling Michael about the day, and we talked about how he could handle it being that he is alone in Seattle. (And a quick aside to the evilness of the airlines…why does it cost so much to fly anywhere these days?!) I was worried about him, forgetting that I have my own grief in my attempts to take care of his.

My grief is for sweet, sweet Phil, for missing his happy-go-luckiness; for his parents, for Michael, for Nick. For the friends who still post on his Facebook page. For the last year where I have seen Michael move away and suffer alone as he tried to cope and understand the loss of his brother from another mother.  A year that has seen me delve into the complexities of grief and learn that once again, how Michael and I process it is so vastly different.

He had been wracked with nightmares; unable to sleep for fear of what he would see when he closed his eyes, and this left him gaunt and on edge. I finally found a book that stated some people do have horrid nightmares of trying to get to the person and then dreaming again and again of their death, while others dream of bliss with the person who has died, only to wake up to the emptiness of their departure. That is me. After Jon died I would have dreams as if he was still alive and healthy. We would be living our life and then, oh, I would wake up. It seemed a daily renewal of his death. Both are coping mechanisms as our sub-conscious tries to deal with what is before us…neither is a picnic…and learning of them helped us both.

Michael’s music has been pushed aside. At first, he wrote multiple songs, went to LA to have them recorded, then a band heard his tracks and wanted him to be their lead singer. All such wonderful things, but guilt and sadness kept him from moving forward. He has thrown himself into a full time 9-6 job which leaves him no time to do music. The pain of it is acute, of course, getting everything him and Phil ever dreamed of together. He will eventually figure out how to do it without Phil. How to enjoy what is happening without having to leave to go cry in the alley, as he did when he was in that recording studio. A year is not enough time to deal with it all; how do you move forward when, quite frankly, you don’t want to? How do you enjoy good things without the guilt?

My grief is tied to Michael, of course, but I have my own as well. My first trip to the Abbey was difficult. I had gone with friends but was overwhelmed at the fact that Phil wasn’t there. Our waitress had known him and we cried a little together as we remembered him. I asked her to bring me his favorite beer and even though I am not a drinker, I toasted him and enjoyed my few sips.

I’ve had a few instances of thinking I see him in a crowd…another grief mechanism that is painful. One day on my way to church, I was cruising up Camino Seco and saw someone who looked just like Phil…it was all I could do not to pull over and throw my arms around his neck. “We thought you were gone!” I’d say, without missing a beat. “Come on, I’ll drive you home!”

If you’ve ever lost anyone, it seems plausible. It really, really does. Because you have day dreams and visions of it all being just a terrible mistake and your brain believes it could really happen. If they suddenly walked in the door (or sat up in the chapel) you wouldn’t be angry at all because you would just be so relieved and thankful that they are here! A party would be thrown and you would be so, so thankful. In that split second when you think you see them, oh it is pure joy. And then, the harsh reality sets in, and sadly, you remember that they have died. As painful as this is, it inches you toward healing.

Because, one day, you realize, of course, that they are truly not coming back. The daydreams that this is all a mistake don’t seem as plausible. That they are gone and you are without them seems to suddenly sink in. And that is a good day. And a bad day. It’s a good day, because it signals another part of the journey of grief, and it’s one you want to embrace. You are starting to see the light at the end of the tunnel and you understand that the pain you feel will always be with you, but the nightmares and dreams will subside and you will start to remember them without the devastating pain.

And it’s a bad day because you truly realize the finality of their departure and you realize you have to let go of the grief that is keeping you attached to them. If you stop grieving, you think, you will stop loving them. But, this is not true at all. The daily grief ceases and in its place the ability to move forward with your memories.

Life awaits. A simple truth and a hard truth because you, the one grieving, dictate its outcome. If you are grieving your spouse, have you rushed into another relationship to ease the pain and loneliness? Or have you gone through the painful road to do the hard work that is there? If you have lost your best friend, have you self-medicated yourself with alcohol or drugs or endless hours of television? Or have you talked with people and felt the pain the absence brings? Because, eventually, you do get through it, and your life will reflect how you handled it.

Michael has been incredibly wise through all this. He hasn’t rushed himself. He hasn’t self-medicated with relationships that are purely so he won’t have to feel the sting of Phil’s absence. He has felt the sting. When I was grieving Jon, someone told me that grief is a privilege of love and I can’t tell you how much that soothed my soul. I have shared this with Michael and he has embraced it. He truly desires to one day be able to let someone else in, and he thankfully understands that he has to heal to be able to do that. And that clinging to someone who is gone is not the answer.

As much grief as I have gone through, I’d like to say it gets easier, but no. The only thing that really happens is I know what to expect. I recognize the stages as I go through them, but, I still have to go through them. My view has always been to be as healthy as possible on the other side. The down side of grief and loss is the very practical idea of closing yourself off. You can do face time with people, but you don’t ever let them in. But, I can’t live that way. I don’t want to. Death is a part of life. Grief is a part of life. And their sting is horrible, but I won't let that sting take away the joy of love. Without love and without relationships, life just isn’t worth living.

As I continue to pray for a Godly man to come into my life, I am confident that I will be able to give a 100% to him. I’ve done the hard work. I am not looking to someone to fill the void that Jon has left. I am looking to build a new life with someone. And that is how you honor the person who is gone. Jon would be hopping mad if I just replaced him and Phil would be equally mad if Michael withdrew and never let himself find another friend or let his grief overtake his music. We honor them not by “moving on”, but by taking the life that was lost and adopting their legacy as our own. Jon’s sense of adventure and Phil’s kindness need to live on in me. But the point is; We need to live.

So, Phil honey, I miss you so much. I miss your happy face. I miss your presence in our life. I miss the friendship you gave Michael. I miss your goodness. You were the friendliest friendly and I will always love you.

Yes, I will always love you.