At 11:32 on Wednesday night, Brian’s cell phone rang. By the time he unhooked and removed his C-PAP mask, found his pants, and dislodged the phone from one of his pockets, he had missed the call. He saw that the call had come from his parents’ house and he knew the news wouldn’t be good.
Last week, Michael and Tammy (Brian’s parents) visited Michael’s doctor, who told them that Michael had weeks, maybe months, to live. His health has been declining steadily for four years; two years ago, congestive heart failure made it impossible for Michael to visit us in Albuquerque because of the high altitude. Recently, a lung infection weakened him so much that a ten minute phone conversation exhausted him to the point that he needed an hour’s rest afterward.
When Tammy told Brian that his dad probably wouldn’t survive until summer, Brian bought a plane ticket for next Thursday, and then he went to an emotional place I have never seen him go to before. He was sad, and a little scared, and struggling to make some sense of the impending death of a man who he loves, but with whom he’s had a profoundly difficult relationship.
On Wednesday night, his phone finally in his hand, Brian dialed his parents’ number and Tammy answered immediately. “Brian, Dad is gone.” Michael couldn’t breathe; Tammy called 911, but there was nothing they could do.
At 11:46, Brian shook me awake. “My dad died,” he said, and I pulled him close and wrapped my arms around him and he cried.
We lay there for a long time. For better or worse, loving a person during grief is something with which I have a great deal of experience. I didn’t try to fix it, or reassure him, or make it better. He was hurting, and I was there with him.
Grief is like ocean waves, or like labor. The pain draws in and up, demanding attention, rising in intensity, rising, rising, until the pain is nearly unbearable and then, gradually, it recedes, leaving the grief’s owner panting and exhausted, but grateful for a few minutes or hours to rest.
After Brian’s grief crested and receded, he climbed off the bed and what followed were several hours of anxious activity that anyone who has ever gotten one of those awful middle-of-the-night phone calls would recognize as Brian prepared for a sudden cross-country trip.
At 5 am, Carter and I dropped him off at the airport. I couldn’t relax until Brian called to tell me that he was with his mom and his brother, Mike.
That’s what we need when we’re grieving — to share it with others. There’s no helping grief; it will have its way with us no matter what, but it’s better together than alone.
Michael’s eldest son is the best part of my life, and for all the ways he helped Brian become the man his is, I am deeply grateful.
Vaya con dios, Mike.
Yea, when this flesh and heart shall fail,
and mortal life shall cease,
I shall possess, within the veil,
a life of joy and peace.
so very sorry for your loss.
Oh, Adrienne, I am so sorry. You know I know what this is all about, way too well recently. And that last line of yours says it all: “There’s no helping grief; it will have its way with us no matter what, but it’s better together than alone.”
My thoughts are with you and Brian. Please tell him, when he is ready to hear it, that there are many, many people out here in the cyber-verse who don’t really know him, have never actually met him, but who nonetheless are with him here in spirit, and so very sorry for his loss.
I remember making and receiving these calls well. I am sorry for your loss.
I am sorry beyond words for your loss. All my love and prayers to you and to Brian during this time of grief.
Adrienne, I am so sorry for your loss. You did exactly what he needed, wrapped your arms around him and held him close. I think being in this *sandwich* generation of worrying about and caring for parents and children is so difficult. Thinking of you and your family. xoxo
lovely friend, I am so sorry for what your family is going through.
as someone who has also known grief, you hit the nail on the head. there is not helping it. but you do need to share it.
and know there are people there for you.
i am here for you.
My condolences.
So sorry for your loss! It doesn’t seem fair that the trip he meant to take wasn’t “soon enough.” I will pray for comfort, peace and emotional healing!
Losing a loved one is hard; losing a parent is especially difficult.
My thoughts are with your family.
I am so sorry my friend. You are totally right, that there is no helping grief, but you don’t have to do it alone.
Sending prayers.
I know you feel the pain of your own loss, as well as your husband’s. My thoughts are with you.
Liz is right. It’s hard to lose a parent. My condolences to your husband and your family.
I am so sorry for your families loss, love.
Can I just say that is the most beautiful description of the grief process I have ever read?
((hugs))
Adrienne
How terrible and sad. So happy that Brian has you to understand him and listen to him.
I am sorry.
Middle of the night phone calls….
just sorry
that is all
Hey Sweetie,
I just read this for the first time. The first time I looked at this I had a hard time getting past the pictures. I agree with your friends. I am very lucky to have such a caring and understanding wife, and this is beautifully written. I also wanted to thank all of your friends out there. I think they all know how important they are to you, but I wanted to let them know that they are very important to me too. I love you Adrienne.
Best comment this blog has ever gotten, easy. I love you too, babe.