In 1972, when I was eleven, my mother died suddenly after surgery. At the time, my father was newly unemployed, but well into his career as an alcoholic; my severely handicapped older sister was living in an expensive full-care facility 3000 miles from home, and life as we knew it was pretty crap-tastic. The general public response to all this grief? Tough shit. Not my problem. Glad it's not me. Don't bother me with your uncomfortable situation, it might be catching.
After being kept out of school a couple of days for the funeral and whatnot, I went back to school. I was in the latter part of sixth grade that April, an unpleasant time as I was the pet bullying project of the class pretty-girl clique. I'll give them this faint praise: They left me alone for almost a week. Then it was back to same old bullshit. As far as the school was concerned, the main issue was making up schoolwork where I'd left off, as if I'd had the flu.
Nobody offered any sympathy or help or a shoulder, at school or anywhere else. I tried talking to a friend about it and she practically ran away. Adults were just uncomfortable with me. I could tell they desperately didn't want to talk to me about it, and I was a good kid, a quiet kid, a very discombobulated kid, so I Dealt With It on my own. It was like having an embarrassing secret that I was forced to tell people over and over again. Did I mention that I hit puberty later that same year? Such fun times. Thank goodness for music, books, movies, art and later on, fellow nerdy friends. That was the only therapy I got--but it sure beat the alternative.
Go forward 40 years, and now my dad has died. He had a decently long life. His health was crappy the last ten years but that was mainly due to his own lifestyle choices; drinking, bad diet, zero exercise. He died of expected causes at an expected time of life, and frankly, it was a relief to have his and our exhaustion at an end. We had a thousand good conversations over the years and were close for long time, before his health decline and the frustrations of aging made him more dependent on us, and a bit resentful. But he remained personable with his friends. So many of them approached me after his death with the the phrase "He was such a NICE man. So witty and smart." And I'd think, yeah, I remember that guy.
The fact is, I feel no grief at his passing. I can get nostalgic for the good times we had, and feel a little wistful that the last years were so difficult for all of us, but grief really isn't on the table, for all the reasons above.
However, since the day he died I have received more offers of grief counseling from more sources that I ever knew existed. Hospice. Mortuary. Cemetery. AARP. Even the CSRs from the credit card companies offer condolences and advice on--you guessed it--grief counseling. Which is, honestly, lovely and humane. But all I can think is:
Where the hell was this in 1972 when I needed it?
(You know what I wish I had NOW? A crash infusion of Arizona and Federal estate, tax and trust law. THAT I could use.)
It's a wonderful thing that there is more care and concern taken now for family and friends and especially children after someone dies. And just because I don't feel the need of grief counselling under this particular circumstance doesn't mean I wouldn't be grateful to have it under another. But the irony of this has just been smacking me this past month, and I had to get it out. I wasn't allowed to whine when I was 11 but by Grabthar's Hammer, I'm whining now. So there!
I feel better now.
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