On Sadness and Other Bothersome Things

Gail just left after we were together in the Southern Hemisphere for 10 days. And I’ve been trying to figure out why I have this sadness welling up in me, or this feeling like a huge piece is missing from my life. I would like to explain, but in proper corners we don’t really open up that much and talk about our feelings or, when asked how we’re doing, we say, “fine,” or “not too bad.”

I’ve been using those throw-away lines all year and, to be honest, this has been one of the saddest years of my life. It hasn’t been “fine” or “not too bad” for a long time. I doubt anyone really knows that because since I was a kid, I always just trudged on with a “what happened has happened” way of dealing with sad events.

I cried when my father died and I think that was more about crying for my mother and knowing how lost she would be without him. A bit more than a year later, I had no tears left when my mother died, technically from a spreading cancer but more likely from a broken heart. Why didn’t I cry? Why did I demonstrate what she always said I was; a coper (if there is such a word)?

The years 1994-1995 were awful years for Gail and I, losing three of our four parents, moving across country, and enduing other trauma related to just living. I gained 50 pounds in protest, Gail seemed shell-shocked. But we made it, largely thanks to all of our friends and remaining relatives. And I suppose believing in the view that God only give us what we can handle. It sure seemed He had more faith in us than we did, though.

You also come to realize that, sadly, there is nothing unique to your suffering. Suffering is a great leveler of human existence as it crosses over all sub-sections of human existence. It doesn’t matter whether we’re a peasant in Bolivia or Bill Gates, we all eventually take those long, final heaves of breath before we pass under. And it’s no great solace that pain and suffering are democratic, it all still affects us as if we alone are left to feel that way. With any loss, the world just seems to sink into the background and all we can look at is our own broken-hearted feelings of sadness and, inevitably, frustration.

Too often we get told that “everyone goes through this,” or “you’ll make it through this, everyone does.” Somehow, that never seems to make it any better. What difference does it make that being hurt is not a unique experience? It still hurts, and relativism is meaningless as a demonstration of compassion.

This year has had it slices of saddening loss for my entire family and, it’s safe to say, that each of us will be glad to say good-bye to 2005. Kellen had to endure the ending of a 7-year relationship; trying to rationalize it as only he can when break-ups and love lost are never rational events. I know I told him about similar break-ups for me, as others had, but he was right to say that “it’s not the same.” And the reason it’s not the same is because what happened to me and others, didn’t happen to him. His was a unique experience and there’s no getting around that. All loss is that way.

Emily lost her dog and then, shortly after, lost who she thought was her soul mate. The same thing: she was given plenty of advice on how to cope from the experience we all have shared. In the end, it was all just as pointless as what was said to Kellen because the loss of something so intimate as a relationship can only have a vague resemblance to what others may have been through. So vague, in fact, that we should all vow to never feel compelled to compare.

The final blow was my brother Bill passing through sleep’s dark and silent gate, as Jackson would say. I cried when I heard about it from Peter, cried again when Kellen thought he was telling me for the first time, and cried in the shower, more out of frustration of not having a voice in the matter. I also cried at the funeral as did everyone around us.

Yet I still don’t feel I have fully mourned his loss as I don’t think I have accepted that he died. I keep thinking he’s going to be calling me or that he’ll just show up at the door one day. Even when Peter told me, I didn’t believe him, despite the fact he was also telling me they were conducting an autopsy – something that is usually not done on the living. I suppose I am still in a state of shock and denial but I am also aware that, like minor tremors, I am having fits of small cuts of loss nearly every day. I don’t think I will have that one big breakdown where it all comes out at once. I'll just continue to have the nagging everyday reminders that he is gone. I think his wife Sue feels the same and I know we both wish we could get that one big cry out of the way so we wouldn’t have to feel the endless little moments of sadness every day.

So when Gail left today and took half of me with her, I shouldn’t be that surprised. Loss of anything, as simple as just time, is always difficult because the book on it says you just have to deal with it. I know I wanted to be on that plane with her today (well, not her plane, it had as excruciating long layover and I just don’t do that), just as much as I wanted to be with Emily as she was going through a rough patch this afternoon.

These are the moments that fill our lives and sadness doesn’t get enough attention because we fear our feelings. Family and friends too often get pushed aside for the supposed greater triumphs of personal gain. I like what I do and I like what I have accomplished, but the simple fact is: I would rather be a better husband, father, and friend than anything I hope to end up with here. Politics and all the entrapments of power is so transitory that who wins what or who has the upper hand on an issue or whether or not the good guys are in the lead are oh so trivial when it comes to taking care of those around you.

Here’s hoping you are all well and surrounded by your loved ones. And that we never forget what we have and what we have lost.