Death's lesson: say it now

Two heartbreaking losses: My dad and My Favourite Husband.

Death. 

It’s the only word I know that, in any variation, has the power to shatter a world with its utterance. It’s confirmation that a person who lived, whose spirit and presence touched lives and made a difference, exhaled their last breath and is no longer part of this world.

In my previous post, I wrote about a close friend who recently learned of the death of a treasured friend. He did what many of us do in the immediate aftermath of a loved one's death: he tried to make sense of what just happened and of the shift his life has taken. One of the things he talked about was the opportunity to tell her the impact that she had on him and that he had been able to do that. He told me that she humbly shrugged off his praise and reciprocated with her words about his talent, his growth over the years they worked together. He said he was grateful to have been able to have those conversations, to let her know. And while the conversation wasn’t a missed opportunity, he was wistful and heart hurt that there would be no more opportunities to hang out or even collaborate on projects. When death extinguishes the light of a beautiful human being, someone whose presence makes our own world instantly brighter, we always want more, more of their light, more of their spirit. It’s hard to accept that what we have is all we will have and that there will be no more. 

In my own life experience, when people close to me have died, I’ve been left with either “missed opportunities" or “I wanted more.”

There have been two deaths in my life that have had the biggest impact on me. The first was my Dad, 21 years ago.

My Dad could be a difficult man to read. He was tough, domineering and his word was the law. He was a farmer, had never worked for anyone in his life and so, whatever he said, went. This would be enough of a challenge but he had a mercurial temperament. He could be laughing, jovial and happy one moment and, in the next, without warning, be snarling, yelling, verbally abusive. And as quickly as it came on, the storm passed and he was back to being even tempered. But in his wake, he left the destruction of shattered confidence,  feelings of worthlessness. And he expected all impacted to forget the harsh words, the sharpest barbs and reset back to even keel.

Dad’s death was missed opportunities for me. He battled cancer but was told that while death was imminent, it was about a year away. It claimed him two weeks later. In hindsight, I should’ve taken an immediate opportunity to talk to him and ask my whys. “Why did you treat our family so mean sometimes?” “Do you feel bad for telling us how worthless we were?” “Why were you so cruel one moment and so kind the next?” “Did you love me?"

I had so many questions. I had no answers. There were many moments in my life where my Dad was kind, was fun, was a good Dad. But when he turned, the words that stung, that were said to destroy — those are the ones that surfaced first.

I regret I didn’t take any opportunity to challenge him, to make him answer. But when he went into the hospital for the final time, when he was laying in bed, speaking with a preacher about his soul, I left my words unsaid. Now I’ll never know.

My learning about missed opportunities has been multifaceted. One point is to have conversations in the moment or shortly after. Whether it’s the opportunity to address a concern, voice a displeasure or ask clarifying questions, I need to do so to get resolution. Could the conversation be unpleasant? Potentially. But, to me, it’s worse NOT to have that conversation, to leave things unresolved, to wonder. 

On the other hand, a missed opportunity could also be the chance to tell someone the positive impact they’ve had on my life. The big and small kindnesses, the acts of love, the mentoring and shaping that may be effortless to them but meant the world to me. Those words, words of thanks, words of praise, are sometimes taken for granted. I assume someone knows what they mean to me and what they mean to my life but “thanks” doesn’t always cut it. And sometimes,  words of praise, words of thanks can be brushed off because we don’t feel deserving. I’ve done it: “Oh, it was nothing,” or, “Oh no, it was all you."

But even if the words of gratitude are accepted with humbleness or embarrassment, should that be a reason for stopping a conversation? What if tomorrow is someone’s last day on Earth and they didn’t hear how much they meant to me. 

The second death that impacted my life deeply was that of My Favourite Husband (MFH). With MFH, I didn’t feel I had a lot of missed opportunities but that I wanted more. MFH didn’t start out to be a great communicator but, through time and being married to me, he learned to open up and I learned not to over-communicate and balance was found. He knew the majority of time I need to hash out a situation soon after it happened and I knew that there would be times he would need space and time to process something before we talked it out. When he died, I didn’t feel like there were conversations not had, words not spoken. With all of the feelings that overwhelmed me upon his death, the feeling of unfinished in regards to conversations wasn’t one of them.

But…

I wanted more. I wanted more “I love you.” More McDonald’s for lunch (he LOVED McDonald’s). More comedian podcasts. I wanted more sitting on the patio chatting. More going to dialysis with him and visiting with his nurses. I wanted more hand-holding during movies. More conversation even if he said controversial things to poke the bear. I wanted more of the softer man he had become. When we first got together, he was a bit hard and crusty. And I was very soft, very liberal, a bit hippie Through our many years together, he softened up and I toughened up. It worked for both of us. Towards what would be the end of his life, though, he became softer still. He would shed tears of joy and sadness a bit more readily. His laugh came easier. He reached out and put more good into the world. 

I wanted more time. I wanted more of our lives together because when he got his transplant and recovered, I knew it would be good. I wanted more everything. I wanted more of this man.

My learning about wanting more? To make each moment count now. Because more might not be an option. To be happy and satisfied with what I have. Is it OK to want more? Absolutely. But wanting more is tied in with accepting the reality of a situation and accepting that right here, right now may be all I get. 

Both my “what ifs” and my “I want mores” — like the sharp, jagged edges of my early grief — have been smoothed over time. As I’m continuing to build my life, a life on my own, I realize if I don’t put unanswered questions and unrealized hopes into a place in my heart where the unresolved things live, I won’t find peace. My steps won’t be forward. They creep up on me from time to time and I temporarily give in to my past unresolved but it’s not for long.

That’s why I am trying my hardest to live a life of gratitude and authenticity where I speak words of love out loud and words that question out loud. The people who make my heart what it is — both soft and hard — deserve to know the difference they make.

❤️