Death is no more than passing from one room into another. But there’s a difference for me, you know. Because in that other room I shall be able to see. ~ Helen Keller
My Dad would have been 91 today. He passed from one room into another 5 years ago. When my Mom died, 11 months earlier, Dad lost his vision. He was lost, period.
Grief is a complicated beast. I wanted to grieve together. He chose to cry every morning for 5 minutes and then close the book. They were married for almost 62 years. He became a man I didn’t know. He made choices that were contrary to his code of conduct and it angered me.
I rarely get angry. Anger is a primary emotion for many, covering hurt or fear or disappointment. Anger is a secondary emotion for me. But grief wasn’t new to me. I’d grieved many that I love.
I didn’t know I’d lost my Dad the day my Mom died until a year or two later. I was so consumed by my own grief, I couldn’t see the man that no longer could see how to move and live in this world.
I was his caretaker, his accountant, his housekeeper, but no longer his friend. The man who squeezed his 6 foot frame into the little kids seats on carnival rides; who and taught me how to bait a hook; sink a 20 foot putt; and sing harmony to all the old hymns… didn’t want me in his life anymore.
He moved on without my Mom. Without me.
He died suddenly. Officially, he died of pneumonia. In reality, he died of heart failure, but not the congestive kind, the broken kind. I didn’t understand that then. I think I do now. Now he and I, we both can see.