"Whatever takes us to our edge, to our outer limits, leads us to the heart of life's mystery, and there we find faith."--Sharon Salzberg





Thursday, June 3, 2010

Good Grief!

He who learns must suffer.
And even in our sleep pain
that cannot forget
falls drop by drop upon the heart,
and in our own despair,
against our will,
comes wisdom to us
by the awful grace of God.
Aeschylus

A very good friend, upon learning about the recent death of my father, sent the following text message, "You must feel like Job.” He was, of course, referring to the biblical character who becomes the target of a wager between God and Satan as to how much crap he can take before turning his shaking fist at the heavens and telling God to piss off. Without knowing it, my friend had hit the nail on its already pounded and sore head. I told him that I had just finished reading a book by the author Richard Rohr entitled Job and the Mystery of Suffering because I desperately wanted to know how Job managed to keep the faith.

I trace my own “Jobness” back to that cool November day last year when a routine visit to an Urgent Care center to have my shoulder checked out turned into the nightmare of "There's something on your x-ray that is not supposed to be there." Then it was confirmed that it was a tumor and not a smudge left by a careless radiologist. Not only was it a tumor, it was the kind that needed to come out. Next, the news that it was not the kind that could come out by way of laparoscopic surgery; it would require the Full Monty of thoracic surgery to neatly divide my chest in half. Then the pathology report came back with the news that it was not the benign friendly tumor that stayed encapsulated; it was the not-so-friendly kind that had invaded more borders than Saddam Hussein. Upping the ante was the news that the previous plan for "Just radiation that would be nothing more than a simple sunburn" was now going to be a full on assault of 30 sessions of radiation and 4 weeks of chemotherapy. This regimen was neatly summed up by a consulting oncologist this way, "You're gonna get spanked."

Needless to say, with this in our wake, (in the interest of brevity I left out some of the other lightning bolts sent our way) my wife, Kathy, and I left for Western New York for my father's memorial service feeling that life had become, as Winston Churchill once said of history, "one damn thing after another." I was certain that this final straw, of multiple final straws, would finally snap the ever-thinning thread of sanity I was clinging to and that the journey to my childhood home would be a grief-fest of Biblical proportions.

The problem with grief is that it comes out of nowhere. One day you're laughing and playfully dancing through life's meadow and the next day you're Dancing With the Stars who have been unceremoniously told that they have two left feet and no sense of rhythm.

So it was with great surprise and relief, or grielief,™ that I discovered that even during a Niagara of tears one could find peace. As I sat around telling stories about dad's passions, quirks and talents in the kitchen, I noticed that I was no longer thinking about cancer, chemo, radiation, blood work, or CT scans. Here, among family and friends, I was not a patient, I was brother, uncle, husband, son and friend. I routinely found myself smiling at the sense of calm this brought and silently prayed that there would be more of this in the future (minus the whole grief thing, of course). I was sure that I was experiencing what Thich Nhat Hanh refers to as the “miracle of mindfulness" a sense of well being one gets when totally engaged in the present moment, even if that moment is something the mind would label as upsetting.

Back home, the ups and downs of loving and missing my dad now mix with final chemo appointments, plans to return to work, chasing the dogs around, and all of life's other magic moments. However, I find that mindfulness techniques help me regain the sense of my deeper self by moving me into what Richard Rohr calls Job's "sacred suffering." This comes from no longer seeking the answer to why we suffer and instead allowing our suffering to move us into a closer relationship with the source of all life.

3 comments:

  1. Mikie - you're beginning to live again on a new plane. Grielief indeed. One of my Aunt's passed away a month ago and I also traveled back to WNY and experienced a very similar chapter in my life. The bazaar mix of saying goodbye to a loved one while being able to share stories and laugh about how that person touched my life. Your Dad is watching you with loving and proud eyes. The year ahead will be one of many new discoveries. Remember to take us along for the ride...much love - Craig

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  2. Mike,

    When I heard the news about your Dad a few stories came to mind that I would like to share. The first was running pass plays on the front lawn of Kenmore East. And hearing those words, "If you can touch it, you can catch it!". I have used those same words when playing catch with my own son.

    I recall the green Dodge Dart that had the strange placement for the horn--around the inside of the steering wheel. Your dad, always being the active, fidgety type, was always squeezing the wheel, which caused the horn to blow and him to jump--and us too!

    The 5 of us had gone to Brighton Park to hit golf balls and got into a car accident on the way home. Two kids in a camero flew through a stop sign and slammed into the blue Rambler. Of course none of us were wearing seat belts, but we were ok aside from some bumps and bruises. Well, the police drove us home, and as the cop car pulled onto our street, your Dad was out fussing with the Rambler wagon. The look on his face as we stepped out of the patrol car was one of scorn and distrust--thinking what the hell have these guys done now! But the second he learned we had been in an accident his expression immediately changed to one of concern and care. . .


    Your reference to Job is an appropriate one. It's amazing the depth of grief we can endure, and I am sorry that you and Kathy are in a steaming pile of it. Losing a parent leaves you feeling alone and vulnerable. A part of who you are, an identifier, a son, is now kinda missing. Seems that your parents would always be there in some capacity, no matter how naive that may sound now. Job did survive and I know you will too!

    Shine on brother.

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  3. Mike,glad you finally came around to my way of thinking concerning hair styles.The long shaggy look went out a few years ago.I thought you looked great.When your dad made food for a party he would always seek me out and say your a good Italian boy what do you think about the meatballs or sausage and I would always say best I had so far today.That was always met with aaaaah and laughter.I dont think he ever knew I am only half Italian but I dont think it mattered to him.Although the circumstances were sad it was good seeing you all again.Bob Seger kept running through my head "see some old friends,good for the soul.You are in my thoughts and prayers and I wish you the best.
    JB

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