Writing through grief

by Ellen Meller

It was 4:27 on a clear October afternoon when the phone rang. The call display told me the call was from my parents' home in Calgary. I knew something was wrong because they never called long distance before 6:00 p.m. I hesitated to answer the phone. When I did, I heard my brother's voice telling me to sit down. "Dad passed away this afternoon," he informed me.

My dad died peacefully, sitting in his favourite chair, watching television with my mom. He had been very tired and was sleeping a lot for the last few months. About six years earlier, he had undergone triple bypass surgery for chronic, congestive heart failure. I did not realize, even though I had been told, that in certain cases surgery only addresses the symptoms of heart failure; it does not cure the diseased heart. This might have been the beginning of my denial I was convinced my dad would live longer than the doctors had said. He did by one year.

As we get older, we are forced to realize that our parents are also getting older. We must face the fact that they will age and die. For some people, health slowly deteriorates, and their death is not a surprise. Other people silently slip away with little warning. That's what my father did. Although others "saw it coming", I did not. Perhaps I was denying that my dad could ever die. Perhaps I thought he was always going to be there since he always had been. Now, after a lifetime of living with him, I had to live without him.

Grief has been a new, different and painful experience for me an experience which I have not enjoyed but from which I have learned much. I have learned about myself, my family and the way grief veils everything. The biggest lesson I've learned is that God speaks to us through the tears in unexpected ways.

Some time after the initial shock of my dad's death, I was having difficulty relinquishing certain images. I imagined the final moments of his life over and over in my mind. My brother had, at my request, explained most details of how Dad died and what he looked like when he was dead. He told me how capably the paramedics tried to revive him and how gently the undertakers carried him away. He also explained how he himself got down on his knees and kissed Dad goodbye as he lay on the living room floor. Every time I thought about my dad's death, the images swam around vividly, and I would weep for what seemed like hours. The tears surfaced, not like a gentle spring but like a geyser forcing its way to the surface. I cried hard, crushing tears. Perhaps this was because I was not able to kiss Dad goodbye in death as I always had in life.

I knew I needed to cry and to allow myself time to come to terms with the separation. However, I soon realized that the reason I was continually reliving my dad's death was that I was afraid to forget it. I did not want to let all the details of how, when and where he died slip away. It was as though I would dishonour him if I forgot. I did not know how to free myself from the darkness that engulfed me until a Christian friend suggested I write about it. Little did I know God was going to use this vehicle to begin healing me.

Through writing, God unexpectedly summoned me to seek His comfort. I was surprised how He touched me and lifted the suffocating blanket of fear and hopelessness. What began as a description of my Dad's death soon transformed itself into a letter to him. I asked him many questions, such as "Did you realize you were dying?" and "Did God meet you and escort you through the gates of heaven?"

I also asked more demanding questions, such as, "How could you just slip away like that?" and "Why didn't you put up some kind of a fight?" These questions helped me realize that I was angry at my dad for dying, and I was angry at God for letting him die. Deep down, I knew that Dad had no control over his death, but I also know that anger is part of the darkness that accompanies grief. I am thankful that God is so big that He can handle my insignificant, childlike anger.

An interesting thing happened after I wrote that letter to my dad. I felt as though God had lifted the darkness and my eyes could see more clearly. I did not have to envision my dad's death several times a day. When I knew that the details had been recorded, I was free from forcing myself to remember.

Jesus says in Matthew 5:4, "Blessed are they that mourn, for they shall be comforted." These two are not separate. If we mourn, then we will be comforted. God comforted me in His timing and in His own fashion through writing.

I still cry when I think about my dad and the fact that he is gone. I still long to hear his voice on the phone saying, "Hello, Daughter," in his strong Dutch accent. But I am not as obsessed with remembering the details of a death that I never saw and could only imagine. God is allowing me to remember my dad as he was when he was alive, vibrant and healthy.

My dad's death is the darkest valley I have stumbled through so far. God led me through this valley in a way that I never envisioned or anticipated. Now when I wonder where God is in dark times, I am assured that He is there to lead me.

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