Three years
My dad passed away at 11:15pm on August 31, 2019, in the Hospice ward of the University of Miami Jackson Memorial Hospital.
My mom, my brother, and I were all with him at the hospital as he took his last breath. And actually, that moment was quite the miracle, because just a few hours earlier, my mom and I had called my brother, who had just flown home to Philadelphia the night before, and told him he needed to get on the next flight back to Miami. He somehow managed to make it to the hospital in time. Or, really, my dad managed to hold on until he got there. Some things are just beyond logical explanation. They’re the things that make you believe, make you KNOW, there’s something higher at work.
Yesterday was the 3 year anniversary of that painful, beautiful, hard, heart-wrenching, miraculous moment.
Every year on the anniversary, and on Father’s Day, and my dad’s birthday, and many Jewish holidays, my mom visits the cemetery. My brother and I always try to go with her—on Skype, anyway, since neither of us live nearby. Anniversaries are especially rough. There’s no real Jewish prayer to say for these occasions, but my brother likes to sing a Zimrah (song) that the rabbi sang at my dad’s funeral.
One thing I ask from the Lord, one thing I desire
That I might dwell in Your house all the days of my life
To behold the graciousness of the Lord, and to enter God's sanctuary.
There’s something about hearing my brother sing these ancient hebrew words, the soft melody, that immediately undoes any kind of steadfastness I’d been holding on to. I’m crying as I write this, actually. I can feel the tears running down my cheeks and hitting the top of my chest. I used to fight it. To try to hold it back. To stay “strong” and composed. These days I just let it flow.
What I’ve noticed is that the more I allow these moments to come, they less frequently they actually do. It makes sense from a spiritual perspective. When you stop resisting emotions, you can experience them but allow them to move through you. They don’t get stuck. They don’t impact other thoughts or behaviors. They are just what they are, when they are, and they pass through like water.
I’m not always great at being water. But I think this is one spot where I’ve learned that holding onto the grief and longing so tightly doesn’t do any good. There’s no benefit to anyone. It won’t bring my dad back. It won’t help my kids remember him more. It won’t bring my mom comfort.
Ah, my mom.
She is still holding on.
Yesterday, when we were gathered from our living rooms at the cemetery, my mom shared how hard it is for her to believe that it’s been three years. How she keeps replaying my dad’s last few weeks in her mind.
Of course, I understand. And yet there’s a sense of separation between us, because I’ve been able to let go of the replaying. I’ve accepted that whether or not it feels like three years, the calendar tells me that it is. I miss my dad. But I know that my suffering won’t change what’s real.
Sometimes I feel guilty for that.
I feel guilty that I’ve been able to let my emotions move through me, when my mom is still stuck.
I feel guilty that I don’t think about the painful days and weeks, but rather the silly moments.
I feel guilty that I can’t relate to my mom as deeply as I would like to, because we’re in two different places in our grieving process.
Or maybe it’s that she’s still grieving, and I’m simply remembering.
I talk to my dad sometimes, especially when I’m out walking Ruby in the morning, and the sky is still dark, and I can see one bright star right next to the moon. I don’t know why, but I feel like that’s where he’s sitting and watching us. He picked a spot that he knows will never fade.
I know that holding onto this guilt is just as debilitating as holding on to the grief would be, so I’m trying to let it go. Or at least, to let it be what it is when it comes up, acknowledge it, respect it, and then allow it to pass without making it mean anything more than it does.
I miss my dad deeply. But I am choosing to carry that as love rather than as pain.
I hope and I pray that my mom is able to do the same one day.
I will do my best to be here for her, even if she can’t.