Sorrow (1)

My sorrow never leaves me. It’s not a companion but a parasite, a twinging pain just behind my left eye. I feel it there, every day, continually batting it away like an annoying midge. A new, deeper sorrow came suddenly – the wave swept over me and knocked me to my knees, breathless and barely able to speak.

The hit of sorrow was very specific and had to do with my Father. The trigger was as usual: Someone, who is never cruel, said something which was untrue and unnecessary. Knowing the person to be very kind made the wound that much deeper and harder to bear. The wound, raw and open, exposed how much I miss my father, every day, and how much I cherish his memory and feel bound and determined to honor it and preserve it. When the weeping subsided, I began to think, in a very honest and clear way. I hadn’t ever felt that missing of him, consciously. I didn’t spend time crying over his long illness and slow, painful death. I did, and still do, think of him often, remembering so many good times not just from my childhood, but adulthood as well. But I had never allowed myself a period of mourning. I keep that well of grief locked away, in the deep recesses of my psyche. It has many, many sources beyond the missing of my father. We were buddies. We took day trips together and did things that no one else would want to do. We went canoeing on a day that started out clear but ending up raining – we got soaked and laughed the entire trip back to shore, laughing so hard it was tough to paddle the boat. We sailed on a tall ship in the Inner Harbor, sailing around the Harbor as he pointed out the Baltimore he remembered from his youth and described the actions of the crew, remembered from his days as a sailor. We worked in soup kitchens, did woodworking projects together, took train rides in the country. We could talk about anything and everything and nothing and never had an uncomfortable moment. He was a dear friend as well as a wonderful father and, as I grow older and find my friend-pool dwindling, I find I miss that friendship so, so much.

The day that sorrow hit me, I could barely speak to the people I saw. I could only drive home and sit on the couch. I sat for hours, stroking my sweet dog Max and staring, blindly, at the wall. I knew I wouldn’t feel better, at all, until I decided to talk to someone. I thought about talking to the person who had been so cruel but decided against it. How could I possibly express the betrayal and disappointment I felt without being cruel and hurtful in kind?

A few days later, I did find someone to talk to. I thought I would rale in anger and resentment and release all that bad feeling. However, what happened instead provided much more healing than I could ever have predicted. I let all of my tears flow, finally, after so many years. I cried about how much I miss him and how good a friend he had been to me as well as having been a fantastic father. I spoke of how, even with his faults, he was the best man I have known and will ever know. I railed about the cruelty of dwelling on his faults rather then his goodness and integrity. I let it be known that he was my best friend and he will never be replaced. His loss is something I feel every day and wish I could see him, visit with him and sit by his side. And just be me again. Now, as I write this, I feel the pain welling up inside. Tears are never far from falling. I recognize that, what started out seemingly bad ended up being a very good thing. I was able to bring all that sorrow for his loss and grief for missing him to the forefront and feel it and scream and cry about and let it go. Having been such a good Dad, he would never want me to be in such pain. He would want to take me in his arms, hug me and make me smile. He would shoo all the hurt away. I realized that, although I miss him every day, it does not honor his memory to hold onto sorrow and anger and have that that tight grip affect my daily life and my health. And I realized, pain and sorrow notwithstanding, that I was the luckiest little girl to have had such an incredible Dad.