The donkey is small, barely two feet high, and heavy. Very heavy. With bent knees I
hook one arm under its chin and the other around its legs, exhale slowly and
lift. My curses and deep sighs propel me through the kitchen, down the long
staircase and out into the carport. The ass is heavy but its wagon
almost defeats me. I thank my nameless god the wheels still work as I
pull it over the washed floors, freshly cleaned carpets and down the steps,
letting it fall on each one like a bag of cement. My irritation grows even though the rest that follows is lightweight: a wooden
bookshelf, a wicker loveseat and a metal planter.
It is the detritus left on my father’s patio after we moved most of his stuff last
month. It is all that remains from twenty-five years of condo living.
Funny how I
had looked forward to this last effort. It would be easy, I thought, no need
for help. The place would finally be empty and we would be finished a move that started in December. And while it was more physical work than
expected the anger it brought up took me off guard. I was shaking with emotion
by the time I finished some twenty minutes later. It wasn’t until I arrived
at the coffee shop for the self-promised reward of a chai-tea latte that I was
able to look inside and explore. Underneath all that adrenalin-fueled
rage was grief.
I had not expected it. So much so that when the barista asked me how my evening was
going I told her in a confusing deluge of half sentences and abrupt phrases.
I just cleaned out the last of my
father’s condo…
I have no emotional connection to
this place…
It was really heavy…
I am really emotional…
I am going now.
I sat in
the car and cried.
And there lies grief’s most reliable truths: it takes us by surprise.
I remember
the memorial service of my father’s third wife, Mary. They had only been
married a half a dozen years when her heart unexpectedly stopped in the middle
of the night. Although I was not emotionally attached to Mary I broke down
during the service: my blood ran cold; I couldn’t stop shaking. I came across to
some as melodramatic and attention seeking but my tears were real. In retrospect, it wasn’t Mary that
I mourned. The memorial triggered a memory, allowing me to revisit my mom’s
passing some thirty years prior.
That is also one of grief's motifs: no respect for time.
My father,
thankfully, is not dead. He is actually quite healthy; it is not his demise
that I grieve. It is, instead, his gradual loss of independence. Whereas five
months ago he was driving a car, going to aquafit and cooking meals he now depends
on a walker, gets his meals made and, ever so often, seems disorientated. Two
unexpected surgeries at 88 threw him for a loop. He has changed. Our
patterns of being together have altered.
Grief feeds on the unexpected.
My father
is still capable of handling most of his personal affairs but, at times, he needs
support—his memory fails him; he needs a drive over here, a liaison over
there. I have never been overly close
with him but have worked hard at developing a relationship in the last
few years. It is ironic that when we are finally able to connect as equals, our
roles are reversing, slowly, methodically.
Grief doesn’t care if it’s
irrational.
As I write
this I wonder if I even know what I am talking about. I have no
real confidence in my reasons for being sad, I just know I am. And, in truth, it is all
that matters.
Grief just is.
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