Major Milestones Along the Grief Journey

Mindy lost her dad 20 years ago, but as most survivors will say, it feels like no time has passed at all. Here, she reflects on all that life has brought her, including the more recent passing of her mother. 

Approaching 20 Years As a Survivor of Suicide Loss

It’s hard to find the words. It’s been so long, and yet I still feel compelled to write about it. I can’t hope for anyone else to tell it. It’s not anyone else’s story. I don’t expect to accurately represent anyone else’s feelings or thoughts or experiences; I figure conveying my own will be hard enough.

Just over two years ago, I gently comforted my mother in a small room, along with my sister and my brother, as she quietly left this world. I wrote her eulogy at her bedside during her last days. It was the end of a long and excruciating week of dreadful anticipation, after a few long months of us caring for her and advocating for her through major surgery, recovery, numerous medical procedures, and various health issues. And this, after several long years of mourning, and ultimately accepting, her age and memory loss and gradual fade from my daily life. It’s hard to mother without a mother by your side, but I trust that she is in me and with me. It was a long goodbye and it was almost more than I could stand to watch her suffer.

Now, almost twenty years have passed since October 8, 1998. It feels like a somber milestone and one that I’ve been awaiting with disbelief. I was a young first-year 3rd-grade teacher in North Baton Rouge, chatting with my students at recess on a beautiful fall day. I was wearing a red sweater with a white cardigan tied around my waist. Another teacher quickly came out to take my place and directed me to my classroom. My husband was there waiting to tell me that something happened to my Daddy, and it was an emergency, and we had to go immediately. I am sure he knew and could not bring himself to tell me the whole truth at that moment. I grabbed my things and we left. I called home from my cell phone in the car and heard the most terrible and tragic news imaginable. Daddy was already gone. I had never before experienced physical pain in this way. My heart was actually broken, and those were the only words I could utter through tears and hyperventilating … “my… heart… is… broken…”  I could barely breathe. I thought the weight would never leave my chest. We drove for what felt like the longest hour trying to make it home to my family. Oh, to see Momma. I was 24 years old. I know how easy it is to torment yourself with last words and what you did or didn’t do. A few days before this, I had called to talk to Momma and he answered the phone. I felt sick and tired with a cold and he was trying to make small talk with me. He asked if we were going to visit there over the coming weekend.  “No,” I said impatiently.  “Please just let me talk to Momma.”

Mindy and her dad

I had to make sense of it in my mind, and so in the immediate aftermath, I convinced myself that he must have been mentally ill and/or depressed. Maybe he was, I don’t know. I’ll never know. I still don’t know how to assess such things.  Add to that, he was quite uncooperative regarding medical advice and medication, etc. So even if needed, he would have been very resistant to treatment, I assume. Regardless, he definitely was not himself anymore since he experienced a stroke approximately 18 months prior to his death. He lost all speech for a while but regained much through therapy. He promptly discharged himself from therapy when he felt done. Typical. He was eventually able to communicate and drive and get back to his business after a few months of recovery but never seemed to feel entirely comfortable in his new normal.  Everyday things that he was good at in the past, like speaking spontaneously and thinking quickly and creatively, became more challenging. Common problems seemed to loom large with no good solutions readily available.

What I do know with certainty is that he was always a special human being. He was unlike any person I had met up until that point, and that still stands today.  He was unpredictable. He was fearless. He was funny. He was generous. He was compassionate. He was strict. He was stubborn. He was loud. He was handsome. He was tough. He was clever. He was a leader. He was a world traveler. He was political. He was a hard worker and a risk taker. He was a loyal friend to many. He was a good brother and son and uncle. He was a fierce ally and a formidable foe. He had a big laugh, and it was contagious. He loved to eat and drink and nap and watch tv and host parties and sit at bars. He loved Momma, and he loved us. He took care of us, often at great risk and sacrifice to himself. He wasn’t flawless or perfect, but he was good.   believe he had a good heart, although he and I argued countless times. Sometimes we fussed about things that I would still fight about to this day, and sometimes about things that now seem trivial. But how much did I love him!  Even now, I miss him every day.  I believe the world is better because he was in it, and I feel so thankful to have been in his light while it was shining.

Our immediate family felt different after he was gone. Holidays and regular days were all different, and for a long while, everything was filtered through sadness.  And then the babies started coming. My twins were born less than two years after his death. The busyness of parenting distracted me, and the laughter of the littles changed things. Yet, after such a loss, the joyful times are hard too. He and Momma would have six grandsons and one granddaughter now. Having seen the way he adored the one grandson he knew, there is always a layer of sadness underneath if I let my mind wander… He will never know and love my children that way. Worse still, they will never know him. There are photos of all the kids with Momma, them loving her and her loving them. But there are no pictures of them with Daddy. I only see him in my dreams. So, I continue to sit in this uncomfortable space of not knowing what to say, or when to say it. How can I explain him to them? As years roll on, so many of his friends and family members have gone too…

Often, we are just outside of the inner circle of those experiencing profound grief and loss. From that vantage point, there is a tendency to not speak of the person who has gone. Maybe you don’t want to trigger an uncomfortable emotion, or remind survivors of the pain. That certainly is a possibility, I guess. I don’t presume to speak for everyone, but I suspect that most survivors want desperately to hear your stories. They probably want to know that you fondly remember their loved ones. They probably hope and pray that those people are still living in your heart and mind. They probably need to know that other people’s lives were affected by their loved ones, too. They probably want to know that their loved ones impacted the world in some small way. They probably want to hear the funny stories. They probably want to hear about the good old days. They probably want to hear about the hard times. They probably just want to know that you haven’t forgotten and that you, too, still miss him or her. Several friends have already shared with me their own personal stories and memories of being with my parents over the years. Those are treasured gems and I hold them close to my heart. I share them with my children. Maybe in some way, through stories and pictures, I can create an image over time that slightly reflects the reality of who they were… Maybe I can give them a little bit of history that they’d otherwise never know.  Nothing can replace the void that we feel every day because of the loss of those closest to us. However, I welcome and cherish these small gifts. If you are willing and able to share anything with me, please do.  I would be so grateful. Twenty years is a long time, and I still can’t believe it at times. It still breaks my heart that it happened.  When I close my eyes, I can still see him and hear his voice. Thankfully. If you knew him, I bet you can too.

Related posts:

Lasting Memories of My Dad on His Birthday Dear Dad: A Letter After Loss The First Year: A Letter of Love and Hope How Grief Broke Our Family