Grieving the way we need to.

There is no right or wrong way.

My father passed away in the early evening yesterday. He had exactly the death he wanted: at home, no pain, surrounded by family. I was not there, as he lived in Chapel Hill, North Carolina, but my sister in law Jessica put me on speaker phone. He could clearly hear and knew it was me because he opened his eyes when he heard my voice.

He was diagnosed with pulmonary fibrosis in 2017 and told he had three to five years to live. He outlived his diagnosis and was doing very well until about this time last year when he started to decline. Still, he was able to do most of the things he loved like shop at Wegman’s, cook for my step-mother, and eat out until very shortly before his death. They called hospice about two months ago and hospice was wonderful. They were able to get most of his pain from arthritis under control, and they set up the house so he could get around safely, even dragging the long cord to his oxygen concentrator behind him.

I spent Thanksgiving with my father and step-mother. I’ve spent almost every Thanksgiving of my life with them. Long ago we all went out for a big lunch with my grandparents and aunt and uncle and their daughter. Those were fancy rituals where we dressed up and went to the Twin City Club, my grandparents’ city club, which I guess is the city version of a country club. Since my grandparents passed away, we had been spending Thanksgiving with my aunt and uncle at the Washington Duke Inn, continuing the family tradition of eating out. My uncle, Dr. Gerald Wilson, passed away suddenly in September. He was eight years older than my dad, and they were very close. I imagine that Dad is with Gerald in heaven.

It was a very meaningful Thanksgiving. Though she was exhausted from taking care of my dad, my step-mother cooked a delicious Thanksgiving meal. Dad was no longer able to leave the house because of the levels of oxygen he needed to be on, so for once we did not go out. My aunt came over and we were so glad to be with her on the first Thanksgiving since her husband’s passing. After lunch, my exhausted parents and their sweet little dog took a nap, and I cleaned the kitchen. It gave me time to grieve by myself while doing something that they needed. They were so appreciative of the help. It was a little thing but meant so much to all of us. The next day I helped my step-mother get a few Christmas decorations out of the shed.

She was becoming more and more exhausted, and my dad shared with me that while he was very much as peace with dying, he was worried about how tired she was. If I had lived closer I would have been able to do more, but I am far away. My step-brother and sister in law did a lot for them and I’m so grateful they were there at the end.

When you know someone is dying you can take the time to say everything you wanted to say, and to process some of the grief before the death actually takes place. I alternate between being relieved that he died exactly as he wanted and feeling sad that I will not talk with him again in this world. Though perhaps I will… I’m one of those people who has a strong sense of communion with those who have gone before us. Having come very close to death myself, I know that border line very well.

Two years ago this time, my friend Marilyn was in the hospital after her suicide attempt. She seemed to be doing better then she had four seizures and died. I am fairly sure I know what happened, and that the hospital made mistakes that cost her life. I am extremely familiar with how people with substance use disorders are treated in the medical system, down to the kinds of errors staff make both unintentionally and sometimes intentionally. I would be a great advocate for patients, and did so informally for my church in Jersey City. I remember the calls: “Put on your grown up clothes, we’re taking someone to the hospital.” People who are poor, black and on Medicaid are assumed to be drug seekers, so getting them pain medication or any care at all means bringing out all the white Masters in Public Health knows nurse and doctor culture really well guns. I loved it, honestly. I love fighting for people in the medical system. I can be terrifying, in a polite way, when I want to be.

I was not there to fight for Marilyn. She was states away in Alabama. She died at 24. I was 48 at the time and kept wondering why it wasn’t me instead. Why such an amazing young woman was taken from us so young. My mom the former hospice chaplain and my friends from Elis for Rachael, some of who had survived suicide attempts, helped me understand.

I wrote in Splice Today about disenfranchised grief, the grief you feel when you are mourning someone who is stigmatized by society. People who lose a child or other loved one to contaminated drugs (often called overdose but no one dies of medical grade heroin - it’s usually the contaminants that kill, courtesy of the disaster that is the War on Drugs) often feel disenfranchised grief. I remember how people would ask me if Marilyn and I were close, a question that is frankly offensive when you are grieving. It’s as though the amount of grief should be allotted based on your familial relationship or how long you’ve known each other or how often you communicate.

My grief for her will never end. We knew each other from October 1 until her death in late December. During that time we became very close. She wanted to get an MPH. She loved nutrition and exercise and Peter Attia, just like I do. We shared recipes and she made my oatmeal protein cookies. She had two beautiful kittens she adored. Then she was gone.

Now I am on the other side of the grief spectrum. My father has died, so I am allowed a socially acceptable kind of grief. I spoke with a close friend this morning who said he was glad I wasn’t grief stricken. That made me feel bad. I am very, very sad. I have cried a lot, before, during and after the day my dad died. But he died peacefully after a long life well lived. I want to focus on that and on my gratitude for the role I was able to play in his life and the life of my family, not just on the loss. Right now, death is something we can not avoid. I understand how some life-extensionists do not want to accept death, and I am all for attempts to repair the damage of aging and extend healthy lifespan. But once someone has to die, it is a blessing if they can do so peacefully, according to their wishes.

I thought of going to church or Zen (the Zendo is across the street from my apartment and I am a serious Zen practitioner) but I realized I’m not up to facing anyone yet. I just want to be quiet with my little kitty. You, my worldwide family, are good company now.

Some of the new members of my worldwide Jewish and Zionist family may be wondering why we are not burying my father according to Jewish tradition. Surprise! We aren’t Jewish! I forgot that some of you don’t know that.

My father was a Zionist but he was a Christian minister and Biblical scholar. My mom is a PhD in religion too. I will tell you more about how my dad raised me to be a Zionist in another entry, but for now let me un-confuse you just by saying that we are Christians who are very much in support of Israel and the Jewish people. Not the evangelical type, just regular Protestants. He was a United Methodist minister and my mom is a United Church of Christ minister. I was very active in my church here in Philly for many years, including being in charge of the live nativity scene the year that no one escaped. I stopped going to church and started going to Zen on Sunday mornings during the 2016 election season when I felt like my church was becoming more of a political anti-Trump rally than a church. My church as a whole has a long history of supporting civil rights, but I was feeling like things like the Bible were left behind at that time I love going to synagogue because they talk about things like G-d. And it’s in Hebrew, which is so calming to me.

I’ve kept in touch with my pastor though and he and the church have prayed for my dad and family. I will probably go for Christmas Eve. I don’t like to be alone on holidays, and while my mom is coming for Christmas Day dinner at my house, she has to do the service at her church over an hour away, and I don’t like to drive at night.

I felt like I should DO something this morning, Zen or church or something, but I am just so tired. Waiting is exhausting, grief is exhausting, and I am in the middle of a great deal of transition. It might be a good day to go easy on myself, something I’m not terribly good at.

Sometimes I wish I were Jewish because there are clear ways to do things, or at least a general outline of how to do things. Jews know how to do grief. In my experience they do not shy away from it like others. In some ways I’m glad that I don’t have to do anything in particular now, though. I’m just so tired and the peace and quiet of my apartment with my little kitty is nice.

Tomorrow I’ll be meeting my mom for lunch and grocery shopping at Wegman’s. I’m picking up the ingredients for our Christmas dinner, which we’re having at my house with a close friend in the neighborhood. I’m baking a ham - another sign that I’m not actually Jewish though I know plenty of Jews who do eat pork - along with mashed potatoes, sweet potatoes, Brussels sprouts and my mom is making a squash casserole. She’s bringing a key lime pie for dessert. Hey, it’s green, that’s Christmas-y!

I’m used to the holiday time being a time of loss for my family. Perhaps we should just celebrate the longest night of the year. But we have gotten through it, and I am confident that my father is in heaven with his brother, his parents, and many who have gone before us. Perhaps my college advisor, Jaroslav Pelikan, whom my dad idolized, was there to greet him, demanding he learn nineteen more languages before resting forever in peace. That would keep him busy.

Hug your loved ones. Live the time that you have.

Much love.