Here is a tip for anyone who knows someone grieving. Don’t say ANY of the following:
You now have to get
use to your new normal.
God has a different
plan for you.
He’s in a better
place.
Gordie is at peace in
Heaven.
New Normal is an oxymoron. There is nothing normal about life after you have lost your
husband. Nothing. Ever. How about you lose your husband and then tell me how newly
normal your life is?
God has a different plan for me? Well fuck you and fuck God. I liked the old plan.
And this different plan you are talking about could be for me to marry
some super hot, super rich rock star and I still would hate it.
He’s in a better place. Are you shitting me?
He’s in a place without his sons, wife, and beloved dog. Does that sound better to you?
Gordie is at peace in heaven? Are you a fucking moron? Did you ever meet Gordie? He’s not at peace.
He’s pissed. Super
pissed. He can’t see Wyatt’s first
baseball game. He can’t take Wyatt
to his first Raiders game. He
can’t play flag football or practice baseball with Nathan anymore. He won’t see either of his boys
graduate from his alma mater, De La Salle. He won’t see either of his sons get married. He won’t celebrate a 20-year wedding
anniversary with his wife, the only woman he said he ever loved.
The comments like these were endless. It seemed everywhere I went, people had
these same little gems of wisdom. I would just stare at people as they said this stupid shit
and think shut up. But I would just sit there in silence
and clench my fists. When I was finally able to escape, I would seek refuge in
my runs. My feet seemed to run in
continuous four beat counts to the words:
shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up, shut the fuck up.
The 2nd Friday after Gordie died, I was driving
in my car on the 680 freeway and thinking about people telling me that Gordie was
at peace in Heaven and happy to be there.
As I drove I said out loud “I don’t buy it Gordie. I just can’t believe you are happy
about being torn from your sons. I
don’t care how great Heaven might be, I think you are pissed. Give me a sign. Are you pissed or are you at peace?” I
asked.
There was no sign.
I drove the rest of the way home in silence.
That night I was sitting on my bed, my computer on my lap,
staring into space trying to process this new life when there was some kind of
flash outside my window.
I looked toward the window and thought what was that?
A few seconds later there was a clap of thunder.
What the heck? I
thought, do we get thunder and lightning
in the Bay Area?
I searched the back of my mind and could not remember
thunder and lightning growing up in the Bay Area. We
certainly got thunder and lightning when Gordie and I lived in Colorado and it
was the bain of my existence there.
I hate thunder and lightning.
The booming sound of thunder scares the crap out of me. I cannot count the number of nights in
Colorado where we’d be getting a major storm and I would lie in bed next to
Gordie clutching his arm.
As I sat there trying to figure out if we do indeed get
thunder and lightning in the Bay Area, there was another lightning flash
followed by another clap of thunder, and another, and another and man did it
get loud. In fact, what transpired
that night was just like the storms we experienced in Colorado where the
thunder literally shakes the house.
Ralphie, our dog, was on my bed, huddled next to me, shaking in fear,
just as he had done for years in Colorado. I sat in my bed a little nervous but then I had a
thought.
“Is this the sign Gordie?” I whispered out loud.
The thunder continued.
After a few minutes, I said out loud “OK, I get it. You are pissed. I knew it”.
The next morning I asked my Mom “did you hear the thunder
last night?”
“Yep” she said, “that was quite storm”.
“Do those kind of storms happen out here now?” I asked.
“Hardly ever” she said, “I can’t remember the last time it
did that”.
“Oh” I said out loud.
But inside my head I was thinking, Holy crap!
And it did not surprise me at all that Gordie answered my
plea for a sign as to whether or not he was pissed with a house-shaking
thunderstorm.
