My Journey through Grief, part 1

While grief is one of the most universal emotions we share as human beings, it is also one of the most personal.  Our grief is our own- it is unique to each of us, precisely because grief is shaped by so much more than just the events that bring it about- it is also shaped by our personality, our family, our upbringing, our relationship to the person that has died, and our faith and values.  In addition to conditioning how each of us grieves a loss, each of these factors also shapes how we view grief itself.

Therefore I feel like a good place to start in this blog is to share my own journey with grief.  By no means do I hold myself up to have some special knowledge or understanding of grief, not do I claim that my experience trumps anyone else's.  But in sharing my own story I hope to invite others of you to share yours, as much or as little as you would like.  Each time I recount my story, there's a tiny element of healing and closure that occurs, but, more importantly, there is a renewed knowledge and understanding that God is using my experience to minister to others.  Each time I tell my story, it's a reminder that there is, in fact, something on the other side of grief, and that grief does not simply end nor does it stretch on and on in the same way, either.  Each time I tell my story, it becomes just a bit more my story, meaning something I claim as my own and not something I am ashamed of.  And when we come to the point where we can claim something as our own, we are in a better position to use it in a productive way to bless others.  So, yet again, here is my journey with grief- here is my story.

In June of 1998, my father, William "Bill" Parks, and I were riding in a bicycle rally.  I was 13, my dad was 41 (I believe), and the temperatures were soaring through the 100's.  We were tackling the 30-miler this year.  At one of the last rest stops before the finish line, I downed a bottle of water and a banana, told my dad I'd see him at the finish line (probably adding an "old man" zinger in there), and took off on my own.  My dad had been riding with someone he met on the ride who turned out to be an EMT.  That would turn out to be important- but not enough.

When I reached the finish line I made my way through the mass of riders, when I suddenly felt a hand on my shoulder.  I turned around to see a police officer, who asked my name and then told me I needed to come with him.  I probably thought I was in trouble, so I followed him to a medical tent, where I learned that my dad had had a heart attack on the ride and had been taken already to the hospital.  They put me and my bike in a police car and went to pick up my mom at our house.  She had already been notified and was a wreck, to say the least.

I don't remember any of the ride to the hospital, except thinking, as if on a broken record in my mind, "He's fine He's fine He's fine He's fine."  I was numb and in a daze.  I don't remember a whole lot of arriving at the hospital either, but I remember the doctor coming in to our private waiting room.  I remember him telling my mom and I, not that my dad had "died"or "passed away" or "didn't make it," but that he had "expired."  Like some meat or milk left out too long.  I don't remember much about that day but his words stand out like a sore thumb.  The callous way in which he broke the news to my mom still hurts and angers me.  I don't believe he did it on purpose, and I know as a doctor he may have had to break the same sad news several times already that week and I do not envy him for that- but his word choice was cold and unfeeling, and it stays with me.

After that point I remember my mom crying, wailing almost.  I remember waiting at the window for my grandparents to arrive at the hospital, watching for their car to pull in.  It would take them nearly an hour to arrive, and I'm pretty sure I stood at the window that entire hour, without moving, just thinking about how much I wanted them to get here, because grandparents make everything better.   They would fix this.  They would make it right and then things wouldn't be bad anymore and we could go home and forget this whole thing. When I would get in trouble as a kid I would lay in bed and wish I was at their house.  This was one of those times.  Part of me remembers, perhaps, a police officer standing behind me, but I didn't really notice him at all.  But at the same time, in the back of my mind, as I stood at that window waiting, I knew that everything had changed.  Everything was different now.  And it was very, very bad.

As I will discuss more in-depth in later posts, I can pretty much describe the next several weeks in one word: hazy.  Both at the time and long after, there was a lot of repression going on, which would come back later to initially cause problems but ultimately bring the healing I needed so badly.  For the sake of time and brevity, here are some "snapshots" of things I remember in the weeks after losing my father that I feel are important for our grief discussion here.

• I honestly only remember actually crying one time in response to losing my dad, and it was while we were still in that waiting room at the hospital.  My closest friend, my best friend really, from church and his family came up (I'm still not sure how they found out so quickly), and when he came and sat next to me I vividly remember "losing it" for a few minutes and crying my eyes out.  I'm not sure exactly what it was about my friend's presence that triggered it- maybe seeing him and knowing he cared for me enough to come and be with me, maybe it was a subconscious realization that I could cry in front of him and he wouldn't judge me, who knows?  But whatever it was, that was where I "let loose" for a bit.  And for many years after that I convinced myself that, at that moment, I "came to grips" with reality, got it together, and "dealt with it" like we are all supposed to do over time, except I was able to do it in a matter of a few minutes.  I convinced myself that I had, in fact, gone through the grieving process like everyone is supposed to, and so I could move on and be fine.  Wrong, wrong, and wrong.  But more on that later.
• I remember all the family and friends that came to our house.  Probably around 100 or so over that next week, but it felt like thousands.  I probably spent about 95% of that time in my room on my computer playing "Shadows of the Empire", my new Star Wars game I had bought just a few weeks earlier.  I was told that lots of people came back to see me, and I can honestly say I don't remember any of it.  Looking back it is painfully obvious how I was choosing to deal with the loss- I put myself in another reality, a video game, where I could zone out and be someone else, somewhere else, and not think about everything else going on.
• At the funeral, I remember being gathered with family in our church's "cry room" (where parents could take crying babies and still observe the worship service), and joking around with my cousins.  Joking around with them made it easy to ignore why we were there and what was really going on, and I was so thankful they were there.  I also remember walking down the aisle with my family to take our seats up front in the church auditorium, and everyone in the audience turning and staring at us, including some of my school teachers.  I felt like everyone was watching me, not anyone else in my family, and that I was in an auditorium of over 800 people (that was the rough count later on, and I am told it was the largest funeral our church ever hosted) who felt sorry for me.  And I absolutely hated it.  I wanted to be anywhere but there. 
• Even worse, because I made everything about me that day, I missed so many elements of that service that honored my dad in amazing ways, ways that I can only see in photographs now, like the Sheriff's Dept. Honor Guard that made a procession into and out of the auditorium in full dress uniform.  (My dad was a bailiff for the county.)  This picture is all I have to remember that by:

• I guess the last snapshot to share is one of being back at school, 8th grade, that fall.  I was sitting at my desk, class was slowly getting underway, and a friend of mine across the room caught my attention and mouthed/whispered (in a way that was even more obvious than if he had just asked me out loud) "Did your dad die?"  I think I nodded yes, but I may have just ignored him altogether.  I don't remember.  But I do remember thinking, at that point, that my final place of solace, school, the one place where maybe I didn't have to deal with the loss of my dad, had been taken from me.  Now there wasn't anywhere I could go where I didn't have to be reminded of how much things had changed.  I was now "one of those kids" who only had one parent, and unlike other kids who entered middle school that way so it wasn't a big deal to anyone else, I became a "one parent kid" right smack in the middle of the summer, so everything was fresh to me and everyone else at school.  

          Some of my analysis here on these thoughts has come as a result of some counseling I went through about two years ago.  But that counseling time provided so much more than that- it helped me deal with what had suddenly become an avalanche of grief, grief so sudden and full that I literally could not control my thoughts or feelings, and I found myself crying and couldn't figure out why.  Needless to say, God used counseling to finally help me grieve in a healthy way.  But again, that is another post for another time. 

    Oh, and the part about the guy my dad was riding with being an EMT?  I found out later that when my dad went down while riding, that man jumped off his own bike and began CPR almost immediately, and he continued it non-stop until paramedics arrived.  I get choked up even writing these words now, mainly because I have yet to be able to meet the man that tried his hardest to save my dad's life.  I want to thank him and hug him and tell him how great he is.  The fact that he began CPR so fast, and yet we still lost my dad, assures me that literally everything that could have been done to save my dad's life was done- there was nothing that could have saved him.  And, strangely, there is a lot comfort in that fact.  It was his time.  But I'd also like to meet this man to find out what he and my dad talked about before he died- this was the last man to have a conversation with my dad during his life.  I wonder what they talked about while they rode together?  I'd like to think that my dad was, once again, being a goofball and making this man laugh hysterically, because that's what my dad was always doing, and it's nice to think that making someone laugh was the last thing my dad did before he left us.  I bet I'm right, too.

     You'll notice this post is titled "part 1."  That's because my grief journey isn't finished yet.  I'll take some time next week to add the rest of my story, but for now, I hope you'll share some of your thoughts and feelings that this post has brought up for you.  

• Where do you find similarities and connections between my story and yours? 
• Where do you see differences?  
• Were there places in your journey where you, like me, look back and regret decisions you made about how to deal with your grief?  
• Do you have a clearer picture now of your journey, looking back?

     As always, your voice and your story are welcome here.  Thanks for reading.