Interlude Pt.2
“I grieve different.” – Kendrick Lamar
“I grieve different.” – Kendrick Lamar
There is a birth order but no death order, to a family. No logic. Not a pattern to be discerned or a genealogical trait to be picked up on in preparation. You’d think it’d go in reverse: leave in the order you came; but that might be too cruel for the youngest, having to saddle all of that guilt, all of that survival. Instead, its splotches. Like holes in a sponge, or the perfect hit of a crash cymbal; this imperfect crisis.
[Anger]
Today my heart is a mansion I seek to understand. Though not like this. Not with grief tearing down its fake walls, a tremor with x-ray vision, flying by at ear-shattering speeds to set up hallways dedicated to Loss, right next to the one for Loves Lost, and hang up portraits. Constant renovating and remodeling, he takes me through – this handyman, this museum guide. “We built this one in ’09 for your Grandma. You don’t remember her but she liked rabbits. Her name was “Patience”. Here’s the installment from 2015 – your father’s father. A stern guy who had a lovely celebration. Do you remember his last words to you? Ahhhhh, we thought you wouldn’t so we had them engraved just in case! Lola, 2020. Oh Lola, everybody misses her. Everybody. ’21 – Grandpa!!! Ha Ha! Such a nice guy; strange way to end a vacation. Reminds me of the one we made for your Dad’s brother back in the day: vacation to Cuba, early 2000’s. Anyways here we are, finally, our latest addition, 2022, Aunty Abi. She was funny and she laughed at your jokes. She gave you nicknames and listened. She was not a stranger but someone who watched and engaged as you grew up. Our dear Aunty O, a masterpiece.”
I look at how different they are, each portrait and person (and puppy); and how differently their leaving has hit me. I look at him and he’s smiling, the charlatan, beaming, in fact! This stupid guy. This smug motherfucker. Admiring his craftsmanship; the detailing in the embroidery; the chisels around the edges; his expressionism; his refinement; how much he held back; how much further he wanted to push things. I hate him. Proud of his work, proud of what he’s done to us – to me. I want to ask questions like “Who let you in?” and the obvious “Why are you smiling?” I want to riddle him with doubt and disgrace, humiliate him, as he has done me, until he begs to take it all back. Chalks it up to confusion: a wrong address. As a substitute, I look at the art and refuse to comprehend any of it.
Oh, this sucks. This really sucks.
[Denial]
There’s so much work around death, literal paperwork and process. So much order for the event that imprints disorganization into our lives like a letter stamp. P.O. Box Chaos. Try to act natural. “Happy Friday!” That was the beginning of the weirdest email I’ve ever sent.
Happy Friday!
I was informed last night that my aunt passed away quite suddenly on Wednesday from cancer. She was my mom’s sister, the whole thing is quite unexpected, and all in the midst of us still making arrangements for my grandfather’s funeral later this year.
I haven’t quite wrapped my head around it – not sure I properly will or if that’s how grief works – but I do know that her funeral has been arranged for next Friday, June 3rd in Kitchener. Hoping to attend and support my mom during this particularly difficult time, and I will submit the leave request in Tenrox shortly.
Appreciate your understanding & compassion!
Best, Goodness
Reading it now, I’m disturbed by the mechanisms of my denial. An almost clinical lack of certainty. “I was informed…” why so formal? “From cancer”: was this detail necessary? “She was my mom’s sister…” the obvious leading into an overshare. “I haven’t quite wrapped my head around it” - no shit. “Not sure I properly will or if that’s how grief works” - no shit. “But I do know…”, good for you! “Hoping to attend and…”; weird way of asking. “I will submit the leave request” - right back to business.
[Bargaining]
Is it crazy to say I didn’t even know she had cancer? Clueless until my mom said directly, “She died of cancer”. Transmitting me, us, immediately from a single auntie who was always “sick” while never knowing with what to the (what is it?) 1-in-3 community of those personally related to someone whose struggled with, or died from, this disease. (I cringe to use the phrase “passed away”. There’s nothing peaceful about the two heart attacks she suffered in her final moments. There’s nothing tranquil, or calm, or loving in the unfolding of a medical emergency.) If I had known it was personal, I would’ve made a few extra laps around the track in high school. I might’ve even taken up running in the name of a marathon or two. And I hate running. But I love my auntie.
[Depression]
Instead, Guilt, Grief, and Goodness have shown up late to the party. The lame trio enters at Stage One, while those who have known, for whom this is a closer subject, a more present battle, offer their comfort. That feels unfair. Couldn’t you have waited your turn? Quietly stepped in line and let the ones closest to the blast grieve? Comforted the bereaved? Played your role. Held to order. But no, you were late. And now despite your care this obliviousness, this complete dumbfoundedness towards the reality of their situation, has left you speechless to ask about the feelings you cannot imagine they possess. You’d think it’d go in reverse. No logic. There is no birth order nor death order to grieving.
My mother, her sister, the oldest, radiates her feelings. She’s like the aunt in Encanto who’s mood affects the weather. Pathetic fallacy can be both a blessing and a curse. At this time, her gift has been described to me as a literal cloud of sadness. One with rampant cell division and radioactive tentacles that latch onto anyone close by, draining their energy; cancerous, even. Though descriptions from siblings can be dramatic who can blame them? We’re all shocked when we see a happy person sad. We’re all caught off-guard when we watch our parents cry.
[Acceptance]
My cousin, her son, the youngest, graduated from UBC on Monday. This is a story I’ve heard before in reverse; as an RA, a girl on my floor lost her father the week before starting college. Who can say whether the coming or going is easier? I can’t even tell you whether it was the conveyor-belt likeness of new grads shuffling across the stage – handshake and photo, handshake and photo – or my own welling feelings – the taste of sadness, the texture of tear-soaked pillows, the weight of a depressive wave kicking in – that was causing me nausea during the ceremony. Still, he crossed that stage, steady, with the fresh kicks and a smile full of joy. Tuum Est. Whatever the moment is it’s yours.
In the previous interlude, my grandpa, her father, the nice guy, passed the same day Stranger Things released their season 4 teaser. She has left us now two days before the new season arrives. Maybe they wanted to watch it together. Maybe she was accounting for travel time. Maybe there’s traffic in heaven. Stranger things have happened.
Let me try this again…
There is a birth order.
There is no death order.
No logic.
Not senseless, though it both robs you of them and forces you to feel them all at once.
Grief, you make me feel too much. You talk too much. Cry and wail too loud.
You’re unbecoming.
You’re me un-becoming the version of myself I knew when this person was still alive.
Still existed.
*still*
I-I don’t move; I don’t breathe; I don’t flinch or believe, for the next three days.
(Hoping that if nothing else happens, this won’t have happened.)
Happened to us.
Death is fine when it happens to them, any of them - a theory.
Us?
(But who did we curse, God?)
And all she could say, my mum, was…
At 11pm.
My songs of mourning:
P.S. I'm always finding out too late.
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