My world got a major jolt earlier this week, one that can't be fitted into a 164 character Tweet and one that can't be adequately conveyed through a post on this too long ignored recovery blog. My youngest daughter was due to have her baby boy (my 3rd grandchild) this last Wednesday, but for some unexplained reason, her baby Oliver stopped moving in her womb early Tuesday morning and after a quick trip over to the hospital, she learned (her husband was still outside entangled with an unknowingly cruel bureaucratic registration process) that Oliver had died sometime earlier that morning.
Our family has walked through a grief in the last six days that has transformed each of us. We've all gone through doors which seemed impossibly difficult to pass through, but each of us did. And on the other side, we each took a breath and then realized there was yet another door, different for each of us but similar in the sense that each of them all appeared to be things we could simply not go through or endure. But, each of us did. And the grieving/healing process has repeated itself in each of us many many times in these last few days.
Yesterday, we had a funeral service for Oliver. It was simply amazing. I can't go through all of it here right now, because I need to finish cleaning up our house, washing my clothes (not normally a task I'm permitted to do because I tend to have a habit of making clothes come out of the wash in different colors than they went into the washer with...which never causes me a problem because I'm gleefully colorblind!) and then heading back up to Sacramento to be with my wife, daughter, son-in-law for another day or so. Sometime this coming week, we will be burying Oliver: in a Catholic cemetery not more than 2 miles from my daughter's home and in a special area of the cemetery called the Holy Family section (it's overseen by a large statute of the Holy Family, Joseph, Mary and the child Jesus) and in a even more special area of that which is called the "baby area". It's an area reserved for babies and infants to be buried: you can see it from a distance, lots of balloons, plastic Easter eggs, toys, other keepsakes unique to each child buried there. While that's a major hurdle for Rachel (my daughter) and her husband to go through, it's only one more door of grief for each of us to pass through. I have no doubt there will be many more. But the healing has begun.
At yesterday's service, I gave a talk as Oliver's grandfather and Rachel's father. Before the talk, I welcomed everyone and introduced myself as one of Oliver's grandfathers -- but I informed them all that my three children were teaching their children, my grandchildren, to call me "Ho Ho" because of my slightly oversized belly, white beard, white hair and my laugh. I then shared with them what Oliver's "purpose in life" had been for me. My wife and daugher had just passed out little cards to everyone in the chapel for them to complete the following sentence: Oliver's purpose in life was....
While this might not seem at all related to my "recovery" from alcoholism, trust me, it has everything to do with my recovery. Without question, were it not for my getting sober over ten years ago and were it not for all the things I've done over the last three years to stay sober (I now realize I've been doing far more than to just "stay sober" -- I've really been learning how to live!!) -- well, I would not have been able to get through the challenges encountered over the last six days. And I have gotten through them, and far more than that. More about that later. Here's my talk which I wrote on my iPhone from 3 to 5:30am the morning of Oliver's funeral service....
Oliver's purpose in my life...was to teach me about Grief
I think I've always seen grief to be a bottomless dark hole into which I would fall were I ever to give it permission to come up out of me and into the light. This explains why, until now, I've always said No to Grief.
No! Not now! Some other time! Don't you dare cry! Control!
After years of practice, these negative words all faded into silence. Nothingness. Grief became emptiness. A lack of feeling. A lack of emotion. An absence of love. A hole of no color or depth or width or time.
When I learned of Oliver's death on Tuesday morning, I felt nothing. No feeling. I simply followed directions and began doing what I thought I was supposed to do. And I did that for five minutes.
And then I felt a sound welling up from deep within me and I knew it was asking, pleading to be heard. And then, for some inexplicable miraculous reason I said Yes to this sound not knowing who or what it was.
It was Grief and I said Yes!
The sounds of grief started as a slow wailing guttural groan of deepest sadness and pain. The sounds were followed immediately by tears, lots of tears! I said Yes to them too! And then came the words! Lots of words! Angry vulgar loud words not normally spoken in Churches or Classrooms or at dinner tables or living rooms...and certainly not funeral homes! Or in front of children! The two biggest words were No! and Why?
Thank God these vulgar words were spoken and washed clean by the tears! And the even more meaningfull non-word sounds of Grief. This lasted for thirty minutes. By that time, I had arrived at the hospital where my baby girl Rachel was dealing with a grief I'd never prepared her for -- because I was never taught about grief as an adult subject, as a part of life, as a natural and essential part and parcel of love. I didn't feel guilty about this, I only felt the longing to hold and comfort my baby girl Rachel, my protector, my advocate, my fan. Rachel. The name Rachel means Gentle in Suffering.
For the first time in my life, I have really been there for Rachel. I've held her, cried with her, kissed her forehead and cheeks, grieved with her. And encouraged her grief.
And then, what has been most difficult for me as parent, as dad, As pops, I had to let her go.
What she is walking through is something I can not go through at this time in my life: the death of one's child in their womb, the birth of a son, the holding and caressing of his body for the first, and then the last time. I cannot do any of these things. Yet.
All I can do is be there for her as she continues to walk through a series of massive looking doors, all of which appear to have loud frightening sounds coming from behind them. And I know that she will walk through each one of them with courage, determination, laughter and wit. And oh, with beautiful and powerful and grace filled written words! I know this because I have seen her do this repeatedly for the last five days. A Woman Warrior!
So it appears I was blindsided this week not by Death but by Life. I've learned the painful lesson that Death is an essential critical part of life. Over the last 58 years, I'd fallen asleep to this wonder-filled fact: all life has a beginning, a middle and an end.
Oliver Martin Gs life's beginning, middle and end lasted a day short of forty weeks. In that all too short time, he was wonderfully loved and nurtured by a mother and father and a large group of extended holy family and friends. In that short life he touched and transformed me in ways I could have never imagined or even hoped.
Oliver, Rachel and Daniel are my heroes.
Life has a beginning, a middle, an end and an after.
We are Oliver's after.
"For all that has been, I say Thanks!
For all that will be, I say Yes!"
(I forget who said this, it certainly wasn't me!)
