I didn’t know how to be the protective mom I was used to being and the grieving daughter I had never been before. How did these two core personas intermix? Where did responsibility to shelter and love my children above myself fit into the breakdown of fear and heartache when losing my father? What could I offer them when this tremendous loss was depleting my desire to breathe?
The three of them had walked into his hospital room as unprepared as I. What was racing through their minds as they came face to face with the blatant truth that their grandfather would soon die? I had not debriefed them for this moment. My mother had not informed me that it was here. We had walked unknowingly into the solid wall of reality, his sunken eyes, his empty expression, his hollow cheeks.
I don’t remember taking them into my arms. Maybe I did. I remember needing to sit down, needing to look away to hide the flow of my tears. I remember my mother’s arms wrapping around me, her comforting voice lilting in my ear as she let me sob into her chest. I remember feeling 100% like a little girl who was terrified of this dark and strange path in front of me.
My sisters’ presence confirmed the identity of three doting daughters in the midst of witnessing our daddy’s departure from this life. I felt a complex amnesia of the mother I was made to be as these child emotions took control of my heart.
Somehow I know that these children of mine that brought out the most raw and intense feelings of my soul, could be a catalyst for the undoing of all the strongholds I had worked so hard to erect. Being “mom” meant that I could shove my feelings aside and take care of them. At least that’s what it used to mean, that’s what I grew up witnessing. Here in this place where I was losing my daddy, I wondered if I could keep it all together. Or if the arms of my sons and daughter would shatter the barrier around my vulnerable defenses.
It’s strange to me, how little of the details I remember about where my kids were, of what they were doing during this time. I can somewhat excuse myself because I know the fragile state I was in. But it breaks my heart that I wasn’t more attuned to their needs.
I want to go back and notice they are losing their Papa. I want to give them space to feel their own sadness and express their own fear and grief. I want to hold them and tell them it will be alright, that I am hurting with them, that we will walk this together. I want to love them! Oh! I want to love them!
I wasn’t big enough to be both daughter and mother. No, I wasn’t brave enough! I didn’t realize that letting them see my brokenness was part of loving them. That they needed to see the freedom of my grief so that they could experience their own! I didn’t walk them through it. I hid from them and so taught them that the depths of grief that require release, groaning poured out like water, is unsafe and unwanted.
Each one said goodbye. Where was I when they bent over and kissed him? I watched them walk out the door, hugging each child I adored more than anything on earth, and then letting them go. I hoped that their father would be enough. I wonder if they talked or if they cried.
I know that it both hurt me and relieved me to see them head home. I thought it would be too much for them to be there when he died. I thought that it would be too much for me. I called their Aunt and asked her to go to the house when they arrived, to tell them that their Papa had left us just a few hours after they drove away, to offer her arms to them. She held them while they cried. She loved them. She took my place.
The day of the funeral came. I made rounds greeting, hugging, welcoming people to the service. Where were my children? I sat on the front pew with my sisters, mother, and aunt, while they sat three rows back with their dad… so far apart. We were always so far apart. Whether by miles, by rows, or just by the busyness provided to me by practicalities, we were always just far enough to be unable to reach each other. These are my children. And I wasn’t there for them. I was far apart.
When we finally got home, I went back to work. They went back to school. I cried when I was alone in my car. I ended up taking time off work and making several trips to be with my mom as she and I got used to this world without daddy in it. My children continued to go to school, do homework, and care for themselves. Their dad stepped up and took care of dinners and rides to school.
When did we say the words how much we missed him? When did we come together and weep over the loss of so great a man in our lives? When did we simply hold each other and mourn?
And I wonder now… is it too late? To bridge the distance, to crush every bit of unnecessary protection, and come together? Is it too late for it to be my arms to hold you, my voice to love you, my heart to weep with yours? I still don’t know how to be the protective mom and the daughter who lost the daddy she adored. But I want to be more for you and for me, for love.
The three of them had walked into his hospital room as unprepared as I. What was racing through their minds as they came face to face with the blatant truth that their grandfather would soon die? I had not debriefed them for this moment. My mother had not informed me that it was here. We had walked unknowingly into the solid wall of reality, his sunken eyes, his empty expression, his hollow cheeks.
I don’t remember taking them into my arms. Maybe I did. I remember needing to sit down, needing to look away to hide the flow of my tears. I remember my mother’s arms wrapping around me, her comforting voice lilting in my ear as she let me sob into her chest. I remember feeling 100% like a little girl who was terrified of this dark and strange path in front of me.
My sisters’ presence confirmed the identity of three doting daughters in the midst of witnessing our daddy’s departure from this life. I felt a complex amnesia of the mother I was made to be as these child emotions took control of my heart.
Somehow I know that these children of mine that brought out the most raw and intense feelings of my soul, could be a catalyst for the undoing of all the strongholds I had worked so hard to erect. Being “mom” meant that I could shove my feelings aside and take care of them. At least that’s what it used to mean, that’s what I grew up witnessing. Here in this place where I was losing my daddy, I wondered if I could keep it all together. Or if the arms of my sons and daughter would shatter the barrier around my vulnerable defenses.
It’s strange to me, how little of the details I remember about where my kids were, of what they were doing during this time. I can somewhat excuse myself because I know the fragile state I was in. But it breaks my heart that I wasn’t more attuned to their needs.
I want to go back and notice they are losing their Papa. I want to give them space to feel their own sadness and express their own fear and grief. I want to hold them and tell them it will be alright, that I am hurting with them, that we will walk this together. I want to love them! Oh! I want to love them!
I wasn’t big enough to be both daughter and mother. No, I wasn’t brave enough! I didn’t realize that letting them see my brokenness was part of loving them. That they needed to see the freedom of my grief so that they could experience their own! I didn’t walk them through it. I hid from them and so taught them that the depths of grief that require release, groaning poured out like water, is unsafe and unwanted.
Each one said goodbye. Where was I when they bent over and kissed him? I watched them walk out the door, hugging each child I adored more than anything on earth, and then letting them go. I hoped that their father would be enough. I wonder if they talked or if they cried.
I know that it both hurt me and relieved me to see them head home. I thought it would be too much for them to be there when he died. I thought that it would be too much for me. I called their Aunt and asked her to go to the house when they arrived, to tell them that their Papa had left us just a few hours after they drove away, to offer her arms to them. She held them while they cried. She loved them. She took my place.
The day of the funeral came. I made rounds greeting, hugging, welcoming people to the service. Where were my children? I sat on the front pew with my sisters, mother, and aunt, while they sat three rows back with their dad… so far apart. We were always so far apart. Whether by miles, by rows, or just by the busyness provided to me by practicalities, we were always just far enough to be unable to reach each other. These are my children. And I wasn’t there for them. I was far apart.
When we finally got home, I went back to work. They went back to school. I cried when I was alone in my car. I ended up taking time off work and making several trips to be with my mom as she and I got used to this world without daddy in it. My children continued to go to school, do homework, and care for themselves. Their dad stepped up and took care of dinners and rides to school.
When did we say the words how much we missed him? When did we come together and weep over the loss of so great a man in our lives? When did we simply hold each other and mourn?
And I wonder now… is it too late? To bridge the distance, to crush every bit of unnecessary protection, and come together? Is it too late for it to be my arms to hold you, my voice to love you, my heart to weep with yours? I still don’t know how to be the protective mom and the daughter who lost the daddy she adored. But I want to be more for you and for me, for love.
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