It’s nearing the 16-year anniversary of the train crash, which is always a time of great emotion and introspection for me. I think a lot about what life has been like for me and my family since that day, and I think about how far we’ve come. As time has passed, the loss has become easier to bear, and I’ve been able to view more clearly the blessings it carried.
I wanted to write my post about that, about blessings, but I fought for every word that I typed. It felt like I was choking. I hate that. If it’s not there, it’s just not there. I can’t force it. So, I changed direction.
Talked to my sis about it a little. She lives in the folks’ old homestead and she says she feels them there all the time. That makes it tough for her sometimes, but it is a comfort, as well. I think we’ve all moved on enough in our lives that the anniversary is not as profoundly difficult as it was. We all observe it differently, anyway. It’s a day where I do a lot of navel-gazing and thinking.
Last year, going to my friend’s wedding was the best thing that could have happened. It really helped me manage my feelings. It’s not as if I hide under the covers and sob all day like I used to, but I am still so very sad and lonely on that day. Well, to be honest, the whole month is kind of blue. With the possible exception of my birthday, I just have an underlying emptiness this time of year.
I just miss them so damned much.
I don’t want people to feel sorry for me or anything – that’s not it at all. I just feel the need to say it out loud. It’s a validation of the love and the loss and the empty space.
The whole month carries a kind of fog that descends at the end of February. I have to consciously redirect my thoughts to happier things, which often is more easily said than done. I coach myself to put on a smile and be cheerful when I feel it coming on. I talk myself through the day, a moment at a time. When I’m at work, sometimes I take a walk for a few minutes to get some fresh air and clear my head. Sometimes that works, and sometimes I end up in the bathroom stall with tears rolling down my face. That has happened more times than I care to admit.
I know I’m not the only one who struggles with grief. I’m not the only one who has lost a parent, a sibling, a child, a spouse. I know you’re out there, crying silently in the dark, biting your quivering lip, wishing you could turn back time. I know you still want to hear their voices and feel their hugs. I know you steal glances at families and couples and happy strangers and your face burns with envy or regret. I know the ache that really does feel like your heart has broken in two. And whether it’s been a week, or a year, or a decade or two, it doesn’t matter — because sometimes, it feels like now and it feels like then at the same damned time.
It’s been 16 years, and I still hurt, and the depth of my grief still scares me. I’ve come to accept that it will always be there, and I’ve even come to the realization that it has done me some good, but it’s still unwelcome. I mean, come on — by this time, I’m supposed to be done with it, right?
Wrong. Five years, ten years, twenty years down the road, it’ll still be there, and I’ll still struggle with it. There is no closure. I don’t care what people say — I don’t believe it. You move on, you get past the worst of it, and your life takes a different turn. But the issue isn’t closed and it isn’t resolved. It’s unfinished, like a half-built highway overpass that looms ahead – a bridge to nowhere. There is no end.
I wrote back in October that I have sort of an inner governor that keeps me from going off the deep end and drowning in my sorrow. That’s true. But it doesn’t protect me from the heartache. Most of the time, I function at the level I’m supposed to. But sometimes, a big rolling wave crashes over me, and it’s a day or two before I can breathe again.
I miss them with every hair and bone and piece of flesh that I am.
I’m here to say that it does get better, yes. The worst passes, even when we are quite certain we won’t survive. Healing is slow, and a broken heart is never quite whole again, but I think that’s okay.
And it’s okay that sometimes I still break down in the ladies’ room, and it’s okay that my throat catches when I talk about my Daddy.
My mother was a war bride; not in the foreign-born sense, but in the sense that she married a soldier headed overseas. It was February 26, 1944; she was just shy of 17 and her man was 21, looking sharp in his Army uniform. There were quite a few new brides in her high school; sadly, some would become new widows, as well. Mother always told me she never doubted that the man she loved would return to her, and maybe her faith and his determination helped make it happen. I don’t know, but I’m just thankful it did.
My father had a rough time returning to normal life after the war; in fact, nightmares plagued him for the rest of his life. In the first few months, he drank too much, trying to escape the horror show in his head. He didn’t sleep well for a long time; Mother recounted night after night of playing pinochle with him into the wee hours. Eventually the worst of it subsided, and they became a normal, post-war family.
Both of my parents loved children and wanted lots of them. Curious people would see their little ones and ask if our family was Catholic, and my mother would say with a wink and a smile, “Not Catholic – passionate Protestant.” By the time I came along in 1964, they had been married 20 years and already had six children. And as it turned out, seven was enough. The house my dad built had already been pushed out more than once from its original floor plan to accommodate more bedrooms.
Raised during the Great Depression, Mother and Dad had learned the hard lessons of doing without, and with a house full of children on one income, they lived it daily. As the youngest, I don’t remember the hard times that my siblings do, but I do know that in my family, emphasis was never on material goods. We just didn’t live that way; we were happy with what we had, and those things that were important to us were love and family and character. I knew as a child that I didn’t have all the fancy stuff that my classmates did, but it didn’t really matter. I suppose we could have been considered poor, but by whose standards? We were loved.
Speaking of my classmates – I remember several of them had divorced parents and spent weekends alternating between their moms’ and dads’ houses, juggling stepparents and new siblings and the related upheaval. I have always been grateful that my parents never split up; I could see how divorce had a painful effect on my friends. Even when I was secretly jealous that my friend’s dad bought her a new stereo, I still felt sorry for her because she didn’t have both parents all the time, like I did. I don’t think I ever worried that my own parents would divorce – even though they argued, my parents genuinely loved one another and were committed to their marriage and our family.
Growing up in a big family taught us to share and to be patient; we learned to help each other, and we learned to work as a team. We were taught the Depression-era axiom, ‘Use it up, wear it out, make it do, or do without.’ Hand-me-downs were common; toys and books passed from one child to the next; and bedrooms were shared. While Mother taught me where babies come from, growing up with sisters taught me about puberty and panty hose. In fact, it was my sister Wendy who taught me how to use a razor to shave my legs and underarms. I loved my big family.
My father was terribly outnumbered at home; after my brother moved out on his own, Dad was the only male. I often wonder how he kept his sanity back then surrounded by so many girls, but then I recall how much time he spent in his workshop and basement. Dad was a strict, but loving, father, but he saw the humor in his situation. One summer day, on a family vacation with just three of us girls, Dad was enjoying a cold beer outside our tent trailer, while inside the trailer was all kinds of commotion. Hearing it, a man from the neighboring campsite came over to see what was going on; Dad swung his beer hand in the direction of the trailer and explained with a wry smile, “I’ve got female problems.”
Some of my fondest memories growing up featured my parents showing their affection for one another. Many times I would see Dad take Mother’s hand and lead her gallantly through a few dance steps, whether there was music or not; I loved the smile on her face when he did that. Mother drew his baths, and she would go in to wash his back; when he came out, she would attend to his tired feet. They held hands, kissed, and hugged all the years they were married. They were demonstrative in their affection, and that’s how they raised us. All of us knew that our parents loved one another deeply, without reservation. That was how it was supposed to be, right?
Pa used to joke that his first wife was a Sasquatch. He joked about many things – how he’d spent time in the Swiss Navy and the Underground Balloon Corps, and that he was once a member of the Mess Kit Repair Battalion. He joked with the kids in the neighborhood that the sidewalk he was pouring was actually a baby elephant walk, and that the air compressor on wheels was a newfangled go-kart. But he took his role as husband and father very seriously. We girls grew from wanting to marry Daddy to wanting to marry someone just like him.
Mother was devoted to Dad; she first met him as her best friend’s big brother, and was instantly attracted to the handsome, quiet young man. She set out to spoil him, and she did. She learned to cook his favorite foods, and she treated him like a king. She appreciated that he worked hard to support the family and that he was a knowledgeable handyman who took care of the homestead. I asked her once about why we were having liver and onions for dinner when nobody liked it but Dad, and she looked me square in the eye and said, “Because your father likes it, and I cook for him. He gets up every morning at 5 o’clock to go to work, and he deserves to get what he likes for dinner. Now run along.” What a gal.
When I met my husband, I was happy to learn that his parents were also a long-married couple. Sadly, it seems surprising anymore. Because of this simple fact, our backgrounds were very similar, and we had much in common. We both hoped to find lasting love like our parents had, and we believed in the sacred commitment of marriage. He fit in well with my goofy family, and they embraced him; likewise, his family opened their hearts to me.
At my wedding shower, the ladies wrote marriage advice on note cards to give me. My mother’s said, Just remember – YOU are not perfect, either. Those words have sustained me through these married years when my frustration level rises. She also told me that men and women are different animals who speak different languages. She predicted that someday I would find myself in a heated argument with my husband, and suddenly recognize that we were actually on the same side. She was absolutely right, and it’s happened more than once. She was a smart one, my ma.
Over the years, after the kids had all grown up and had kids of their own, my folks settled into a routine of loving togetherness. When Dad’s eyes were bad, Mother read books aloud to him so they could enjoy them together. They helped one another with the chores and the cooking. They would linger at the table after a meal, enjoying their coffee and conversation. They took walks together each day to get a little exercise. Sometimes one of my sisters would join them, sometimes bringing her children along. It was a slower life, well earned by their earlier lives of hard work. One of my poetry-loving mother’s favorite verses was the first few lines of Rabbi Ben Ezraby Robert Browning: “Grow old along with me/the best is yet to be/the end of life, for which the first is made.” That was truly how they saw their twilight years.
My parents died tragically one night in a train crash fifteen years ago. They were on a cross-country trip to visit one of my sisters, and, just weeks before, had celebrated their 55th wedding anniversary. My sister Wendy died with them, as did her best friend. It’s a tremendous understatement to say how that tore the fabric of our lives apart; Mother and Dad were the hub of our family, and losing them changed everything we knew. But what they left us is everlasting: love, family, and character. Work hard; love God; be honest and kind; be grateful; and above all, cherish each other.
My sister Missy and my dad had an especially playful relationship.They pulled pranks on one another, gave each other trouble, and goofed around constantly.Missy was as much the instigator as Dad was.For example, when Dad teased her, she’d admonish him and threaten, with mock seriousness, to ‘get the spoons.’
Getting the spoons meant she would pull two large serving spoons out of the drawer and ‘play’ them on Dad’s arm or back (or sometimes his head) like drumsticks.Dad, in turn, might ‘accidentally’ butter her arm at the dinner table as he buttered his bread.Sometimes he would go outside when it was getting dark, and, as Missy and I did the dishes, would sneak to the window above the sink, suddenly showing his face and making us shriek. You just never knew what to expect from Missy or from Dad.
I always wished that I could joke with my folks the way she did, but none of us other siblings had her special touch. Dad and Missy had a very close bond, and much of that was their shared sense of silliness. Missy, especially, was always thinking of stunts she could pull on Dad; while she was the brains of the operation, I usually ended up being dragged along as the brawn.
One afternoon, when she was about 15, and I was about 12, Missy had a grand idea.She collared me and told me to go find a box: we were going to pull a trick on Dad.So, like the dutiful little sister (and errand boy) that I was, I found a box and reported back to her.We went outside to the shed, and she got me a fishing net with about a 4-ft handle.We proceeded to the chicken coop out back.We were going to catch us a chicken!
After running around in the pen for awhile, I was finally able to get the net over one of the agitated hens.She squawked something fierce, and left me with a few scratches and welts, but once we put her in the box, she settled down.We folded the flaps over on the top of the box so there was just a little opening at the top. We peeked inside; the chicken was eyeing us, but she stayed quiet.Perfect.
We sneaked in the back door, and I carried the box into Mom and Dad’s room.Missy told me to set it down on Dad’s side of the bed.Then, with hushed giggles, we ran upstairs to her room, which was directly above our parents’ room, to listen at the vent.For some reason I can no longer recall, she knew Dad was heading to his bedroom
Soon enough, we heard Dad in the hallway. We held our breath.We heard him go into the bedroom, where he saw the box.He went to open it, and we heard, WHAT THE — ?!??MELISSAAAAAAAAA!!!!!!!!!!!And then laughter. She had gotten him again.
Missy and I were rolling on the floor, we were laughing so hard.
Fortunately for us all, Dad hadn’t let the chicken out of the box – he had opened it only far enough to see what was in it and closed it up quickly when the chicken started squawking and flapping her wings.(I was really glad, because I didn’t want to be cleaning up the mess.)