A few days ago I shared some thoughts on grief with a friend who recently lost her father. One of the most important things I learned after my own Dad died was how personal grief is, so unique to each person. There is no set time when the mourning ends. There is no one path to survive it. There is no magic wand cure for it. How grief is experienced is solely what that individual feels in their heart and soul. Therefore, we really can’t help someone “get over” the grief; all we can do is support them while they go through it in their own way.
Another point made was that the most random things will trigger memories and, perhaps, tears. My Dad died twelve years ago and I’m still caught off guard sometimes. For example, two weeks ago at the eye doctor…
The dirty work boots
A gentleman was picking out frames after his eye exam. He was so thankful for a late day appointment time so he could get there with his work schedule. He noted that he works outdoors and it’s really hard to take time off on nice weather days. He was very polite with the staff and extremely grateful when the technician offered to clean his old glasses for him. Such a simple task for her meant so much to him.
I don’t know what the man does for a living but he instantly reminded me of my Dad, a bricklayer. In particular, the man’s dirty work boots and grimy T-shirt triggered the memories. It wasn’t poor hygiene; they were dirty from a full day of physical work.
Maybe the memories were so vivid because we were heading home to New Jersey a couple days later. Dad’s 82nd birthday will be in a few weeks, so maybe that was on my mind. Or, perhaps it was because my father-in-law was going to be introduced to his newest – and eleventh – great-grandchild, our youngest grandson, and my Dad did not meet any of his three. Who knows what was going on in my subconscious; but, the memories sprang up in my mind.
The memory triggered
My Dad was a hardworking, blue collar, skilled craftsman. I remember him coming home really dirty sometimes. He would be hot and sweaty, covered in sand, cement dust, and dirt from his eyebrows to his feet. Dad’s work boots, khaki work pants and white T-shirts often looked like they had been rolled in a wet sandbox and then set out to dry in the desert. But, then, he would shower and dress and come downstairs looking squeaky clean-shaven and smelling of Aqua-Velva aftershave and Nivea cream. Then, and only then, was it time to eat dinner as a family.
The memory is simultaneously a trigger for sadness and smiles. That’s the funny thing about grief. As the old saying goes, I can choose to be sad that he is gone or be happy that he lived.
Some days, I choose both.
