To Mourn the Living

This week we are coming up to the first Yartzheit of my father-in-law, Zatzal. The year was a hard one, and milestones are particularly poignant. It is as if a force beyond our control causes us to reflect.

I remember the phone call I got a little more that a year ago informing me that my father-in-law collapsed. My husband and his siblings flew out to be with him during his final days. It was five days of uncertainty. The question wasn't if he will recover but rather when it will be over. On that fateful Monday, his numbers started going down. My husband got a haircut and took a shower in anticipation of what was upcoming. Late afternoon the family gathered in his hospital room, and watched his blood pressure steadily decline. They said Vidui and Shma with him. All the numbers dropped to zero. The family tore Kriah. He was gone.

The truth is we really lost him a year before that. My kind, wonderful, and wise, oh so wise, father-in-law suffered from Alzheimer's during that time. He looked the same, always neat and put together, his smile was still there when he greeted you effusively, as he always did. But he wasn't there.

It is always hard to compare emotional pain. But there was a certain aspect of this year which, dare I say, was easier than the last year that he was alive. Death, particularly of someone we loved so much, is heartbreaking. But it was almost as if we have permission to grieve now. We are allowed, so to speak, to mourn our loss. It was harder to process our emotions when he was alive. How can we miss him, if he is still here? Compounding the difficulty were the teasing moments when he was lucid. They were far and few in between. Not enough to have him back, but enough to have us struggle with feelings of guilt for the sadness we felt.

His Yartzheit is coming up and the year of Aveilus will end. It's not easy. My husband will be allowed to go to Simchos again. It doesn't feel like a relief. He doesn't have a father anymore. There is a void in his heart forever. But the healing is gradual, albeit subtle and also painful. Time has it's way of slowly dulling the intensity of the loss. Bit by bit, the period that we can hold on to the acceptance that he is no longer with us is stretching longer There are still the times the pain resurfaces acutely, such as by milestones that we wish he could be here to share with us. And we feel surprised at the ability we have that allows the reprieve to return, the pain less piercing, the ability to move on.

This all comes to mind when I struggle to come to terms with the loss I have to contend with. The loss of my family, may they all live and be well. I've come to the realization, after many, many years of trying to get them to understand, that they won't. Not that they aren't capable. They are a highly intelligent bunch, for the most part. They don't want to deal with the reality. They don't want to come to terms with how devastating it really is. They don't want to put in the work, they don't want to feel the horrific pain. They won't allow themselves to understand what I went though, what I continue to go through, and how they too are really affected. They rather just leave it as my 'issue' alone, they want to have no part.

I lost them all, but they are still here. The illusionary affect is so hard to process and come to terms with. How can I accept a loss that is not a loss? They really can change. They really can get it. And they really won't change. The realization brings tremendous pain and unfathomable anger towards them. But it feels never ending. How can you mourn a continuous death that really isn't dead? The grieving process seemingly never ends because I can't achieve the closure that acceptance necessitates.

I am in no way belittling my husband's pain and loss. And I am also not belittling mine. As hopeful as I feel that my husband can eventually and slowly put his life back together again, I don't share the same sentiments about myself. Alas; the living weren't meant to be mourned.