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It’s been just short of three weeks since my father-in-law passed away unexpectedly at the age of 68. And shit if it isn’t still hard to type those words. While it may be cliche, no truer words have been spoken than
“I can’t remember how life felt before he died.”
As we move through the grieving process, we’ve found that we now belong to a club we had no intentions of joining anytime soon; “The Deceased Parent Club”. I say “we” because as far as in-laws go, he was near the top of the charts for me.
While initiation into the club couldn’t have been more painful, there’s a comfort when discussing the details of his death with another club member. They get it. They’ve lived it. They understand. While we’d all be happy to revoke our membership immediately, we appreciate having each other.
It’s heartbreaking hearing my wife say “I don’t have a dad.”
Those words sting. But for some reason I have a harder time hearing her say “I just want to talk to him.” Whenever the phone rings at home, we all desperately hope that his phone number will display. He would call regularly and we’d all talk to him about different things.
He’d commiserate with my son on a recent Mets loss and plan when they’d get together again to watch the New York Giants game.
After each busted on each other, he’d get the latest on school or field hockey or softball from my daughter.
He and I would outline how our sports teams could become good again or rave about the latest episode of the latest Netflix show.
But the conversations he had with my wife is what I miss most. They’d discuss anything and everything, with equal shares of advice, doled out to the other. Calls would end but then start up again minutes later after one or the other had done some research. They didn’t need to say “I love you” to each other; I felt it just half-listening to them speak.
For friends, family, co-workers, and acquaintances who have suffered through a tragedy in the past, I want to say I’m sorry. I’m sorry that all I wished for you was to be able to move on as quickly as possible.
I see now that the goal isn’t to “move on” or forget. It’s to realize you’ll never be the same and to appreciate that fact. To appreciate the impact that loved one left behind. To be OK with being sad for eternity. The sadness feels good in its own way.
I had no idea but now I do.
I get that life moves on.
But there is something wrong with having to completely clear out his apartment only two weeks after he died so the next renter could be secured. It took ten years for him to establish himself and now we’re tearing it down with reckless abandon in order to meet a deadline.
We walked in this week and all of the furniture had been moved and covered so painting could be done. That pissed us all off. At least have the decency to start once we have everything out.
In clearing out the apartment there has been sorrow, joy and a lot of laughter. We’ve taken comfort in spending time there. There is a connection to him and we’re all fearful to now lose that.
It’s odd saying “I’ll take that colander” or “Just throw away those mugs.” It feels callous and selfish yet that’s where we are at this time.
The burden of all of the “to-do’s” after my FIL passed has been put on the shoulders of my wife and her brother. He has no siblings and no spouse.
I am so proud of both of them and how they’ve gracefully handled themselves. While they each have grieved in their own way, together they have tackled it head on through the shock and through the tears. They each need more time to grieve but that will soon come.
We both live on the same street and have had many meals together the past two weeks. That has been a godsend. Lots of planning, tears, laughter to the point of tears and comfort.
We need to carry that on in my FIL’s honor.
I consider myself to be a spiritual person. I can’t elaborate beyond that because I’m still figuring it out. Maybe “want to be spiritual” is more accurate than “am spiritual”.
I’m searching for any and all signs.
Ever since my wife’s grandmother passed years ago, we’ve found dimes all over the house, in the car, on the street, you name it. Now I know that doesn’t seem that out of the ordinary, but it has only ever been a dime. Not a quarter, not a nickel and not a penny; just dimes.
Sure enough, after it happened yet again, we looked it up on Google and well, it’s a thing.
Originally published on Medium
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Photos provided by the author.