The train keeps moving; loss and living in the void

The sudden death of my father two weeks ago is still so fresh in my mind that there are moments when I haven’t even fully accepted that he’s gone. Grief seems to be one of those things that you can intellectually understand, or read about the stages on paper and it all makes sense. Or if you’re an empathetic person, even grieve (to some extent) with a person for a bit. Loss and grief though, take on a whole new meaning when you experience it firsthand.

It started the same as any other Monday. It was beautiful and sunny outside and I sat on my couch next to a few mountains of freshly folded laundry. I was excited to be productive with my household duties and my blog. It had been quite a few minutes of me feverishly writing to hit my self-imposed deadline when my phone rang. It was my mom and honestly I was tempted to ignore the phone call because I was in the middle of a creative thought. Many of you might understand that thoughts have the tendency to leave as fast as they come, much like motivation or stirrup pants in the 90’s. Instead, I picked up the phone with a cheary, “Hi Ma!” as if to cover up the slight inconvenience I felt answering. Her breath and her voice were labored as the words I never dreamed I would hear spilled through the phone, “Erin…Erin…Pa’s dead.”

I’d like to write the rest, as me being classy and pulled together, like you see in the movies. You know, where the receiver of bad news just doesn’t speak for a few moments due to the shock and then breaks down later on a soft pillow in bed. There was none of that for me. Without any warning, I let out a raspy scream of, “No” from the depths of me that I didn’t know existed until that moment. My body went into a fetal position and my head hit the scratchy carpet. My instinct kicked in after a moment and realized that my mom, just lost her husband. I couldn’t remember how many years, but I knew they had been married for a long time. They were crotchety with each other from time to time, like old married couples are. But they always came back with love and admiration for the other. I pulled myself together and told her I could call family if she needed.

“The Coroner is here,” she said, “I have to go.” Time stopped for me in that moment as I called my husband to tell him to come home, then my siblings to share our disbelief.

“I don’t understand…I don’t understand.” Those were the only words I could say. After some time (I have no idea how much) I deliberately walked upstairs to the storage closet to get my suitcase. I knew I needed clothes and a toothbrush. I threw a handful of underwear in the case, along with a few random shirts and jeans. Toothpaste, a toothbrush and socks. I had to get to my mom. That’s all I knew. As I got into my car I was thankful that I had filled it up with gas the night before. I carefully drove, fast and prepared my speech for the when the cop pulled me over.

It was as if I went into some void, where I was frozen in time but everything else kept moving. I watched cars pass me, even though I was speeding. I watched the cars I was passing. I watched the yellow and white lines whiz past me. The rolling hills and spots of snow even zoomed by. There was a train off in the distance. It was moving north around a hill and through trees. There was road construction and music playing on the radio.

“No one knows,” I said out loud in the car. “The train is still going…everyone is just going on about their day.”

The person tailgating me had no idea that my world just stopped. Tears streamed down my face at this realization. The road and the cars and the people and clouds became blurry. I consciously thought, “Don’t close your eyes, just wipe the tears.” I had to pee and decided caffeine would be comforting and probably very necessary, so I made Starbucks my one and only stop for my three and half hour drive to Ma and Pa’s ranch. That’s what we called it. Or if we were talking to our kids, it was Grammy and Pappy’s ranch. Like a sharp knife to my flesh, it stung to realize I had one parent now. It was now, just the ranch.

I strategically kept my sunglasses on to go into Starbucks. I hadn’t looked in the mirror, but my eyes felt puffy and red. The young lady, greeted me with a caffeinated cheer and asked me what I wanted.

“A venti soy latte, please…” the conversation continued in my head, “my dad just died.” Much like most baristas though, she was unable to read my thoughts, so I simply paid and said thank you. Waiting for my coffee, I watched people smiling and chatting. Some were on their phones and some were on laptops. I sat on the stool with my sunglasses; the death of my father was invisible. My life changed and everyone kept living. This thought just made me sad and numb at the same time. This is what happens when you die. Life keeps moving. This realization pulled every ounce of energy out of me. Stripped me of all feelings of hope and gratitude. Of positivity and caring. It was reality at its thickest. It was hard to move, hard to speak, hard to care about anything.

When tragedy strikes, the train, and everything around you, keeps on moving. What a maddening thought! How unfair. I mean, maybe some skywriting, a sign on my back. Maybe everyone needed to pullover and let me drive by. What? What did I expect?

Now that a tiny bit of time has passed and in spite of teetering between denial, acceptance and anger, I can see that moving train as something different. Instead of salt in the wound or an unfairness of life continuing to move, I can see that train as my father’s spirit and memory. I can see that train moving as a symbol of desire to continue to search for joy and gratitude. Depending on where I’m at (emotionally) though, the train looks different. The priest that presided over Pa’s funeral, said some very poignant things. He said that death should be a “small goodbye” not a big one. We’ll meet again, right? I try to take comfort in this.

Maybe my dad is the train. As I see it moving past me, I can give a small goodbye and know that I will see it again. Maybe I can see the train as his legacy and memory. Although he is gone physically, his memory continues to move down the tracks. And in my angry moments, I see that train as how unfair life is. That you lose someone special and life doesn’t care…it just keeps on moving. It goes without saying (I hope) that the latter, feels awful. I will strive to see the train as a small goodbye or as my dad’s legacy and memory. It will continue.

I think this will all continue to evolve for me; “more will be revealed” –AA quote. Death stings and makes you numb. It feels thick and it’s hard to breath. It’s part of life, but that doesn’t make it easy or make it feel right. Today, I will choose to see my dad in all the things that keep moving. Afterall, that's how he was. He woke up early and got to work. He chatted with complete strangers and made friends with them. He is alive in every moving thing around me and the people who knew and loved him.