Delaware Dad

In a recent conversation, I foolishly boasted that I had been spared the “anger” stage of grief upon the passing of my wife and the mother of my two young sons. This is an open letter to those who have helped usher in this state and to anyone who would dare bring his poison into my family’s life.

I wake up everyday to this reality. Most mornings I get up early, I’m positive, not lonely, content in the quiet house, and prepared to make our lives better. I think about Mary. I see her notes still on the backs of cabinet doors and on the fridge. I try to write something about her. I let myself cry. I don’t think about what she would do or if she’s looking down on us (although I know she wouldn’t be happy with the general mess or living-room-come-Lego-workshop). I think about God, myself, my boys, and how I can use my agency to make this sinful world a little more tolerable.

Eight months of these habits have served me well. I rarely get “ambushed,” that fearful moment when you’re off-guard and a crushing memory comes forward to sear your eyes and explode capillaries. I have few “shut down” days when I can hardly get the dishes done or pick up around the house.

And I am less and less fearful about talking about Mary. My sons and I are entirely comfortable remembering Mom, but sometimes I am unsure of myself around strangers and new friends. I can tell you that someone will listen to you intently when you are at a playground watching your children make friends and running and laughing and you look her (it’s almost always a mom) in the eye and say, “My wide died recently and we’re figuring things out.” As awkward as that can be, it feels good to have another human turn all of her attention toward you. I’ve quickly made deep connections with people because we start at this fundamental level.

Now it feels as if those who were closest to Mary are the ones who want to hear the least. Grief is impossible to understand, especially in others. Mine is active: engaging, moving, pushing, creating, loving, and wrestling. Now it’s angry. It sees people I love not doing the necessary work. It sees people I love letting their grief destroy them and separate them from those they love. It hears platitudes, empty answers, artificial timelines, and a piling of useless words between humans and their grief.

To you who are not doing the work: That pile you’re building is real and it is not sound. It is casting a shadow over you and letting that grief become a monster. When it falls it will bury you and if you happen to survive and dig your way out…the next thing you will see is a black claw closing around your throat, ready to finish the job.

I’m there too, amongst the piles. I’ve got my own. It’s a mound of dinosaur shit and every day I dig into it with my hands looking for answers. Sometimes it gets taller than me and that shadow hits my feet. That’s when I dig deeper, spreading it out to fertilize a greener and more fantastic life.

If you’re not interested in growing something wonderful right now, then stasis and death are your choice. I won’t have that in my garden. My garden takes plenty of work (have you ever tried to rake out triceratops poop?). You are welcome to walk away from your pile and stroll through my garden; Mary’s memory is living there, being cared for and cultivated, but I am not climbing into your shadow nor allowing your pile to soil my sight.

I pray to God that this is the angriest Jason you will ever know.

God bless,
Jason