Perhaps it was the stray dime I found at a garage sale yesterday. I paid the woman a quarter, and told her it was a sign from my parents. As I have written before, I believe it was.
Perhaps it was that song again. I believe our loved ones who are no longer with us can speak to us in a number of ways. One of them is through music. About four years ago, I was having a strong moment of grief while thinking about my dad. I was sitting on my bedroom floor with the radio on, and I heard his voice come through a song released in 1970 by The Five Stairsteps: “Ooh child, things are gonna get easier.”
And they did.
In another month or so, it happened again. I was thinking about Dad, and there was that song. And, once again, things did get easier.
The third time it happened was uncanny. I had him on my mind, and there was the song–again.
And, of course, things did get easier.
I heard that song on the radio last night. Life ebbs and flows, as we all know, and it happened during an ebb. Not necessarily about Dad, but there was that song again. And, yes, things did get easier.
Perhaps it was the dream I had last night. I have mentioned several times in my posts that when I dream about Mom and Dad, it is as if they are still with here, never having left us. Last night was no different. There was a community dinner of some sort in a public hall, and they were there. “Oh, Mom and Dad are here,” I remember thinking in the dream. “I’ll sit with them,” as if nothing had happened. And then the dream was over.
I checked Facebook while I was sipping coffee about 7 a.m. today. A widowed friend has posted about how hard it was to face her now-empty nest. Her youngest of two had just moved away to his first year of college, and without her husband, she was truly alone. She spoke of the heartbreak and pain, but also of the strength she will have to summon to keep going, and I know she will.
I commented as such, and another friend commented as well. This is a mutual friend who also faces a crushing loss: her beloved sister was taken from her in a pedestrian accident several years ago.
Lest we think we are alone in our grief, none of us have to look far.
This morning while I was walking/running, I had my iPod in my ears as I always do. Out of 250-plus songs, there it was again. “Ooh child, things are gonna get easier.” I smiled, then shed a little tear, but I kept moving; my husband and I had plans for an outing later this morning.
Perhaps it was the song again, or maybe the dream, or the Facebook posts, or likely a combination of all the above that brought it to mind: as we were getting ready, I decided today was the day to make my second pilgrimage to the place where Mom and Dad drew their last breaths; it wasn’t far from our destination. Dad had spoken to me through song twice in the last 12 hours, and they both showed up in my dreams again last night. Those were my signs, and I chose to heed them.
I had been there only one other time (And You Will Go On, October 14th 2018), and now that it has been fourteen years, five months and ten days (not that I am counting), I knew in my heart of hearts it was time again. We would be driving near there, and a short detour would take us there.
It was there, and then it was gone. We didn’t stop, I only needed a glance. It was almost dark when I was there the first time; today it was full sun, but in my mind, the dark cloud still hovered over the intersection. I was alone last time; my husband was with me this time. Plus, I was six and a half years stronger. Still, the sharp pain of loss and lingering grief was there. This docile beast will never go away, but I know now how to keep it tame–most of the time.
I have a dear friend who recently lost her ex-husband, her daughters’ father. Ooh children, things are gonna get easier.
I have another friend, a graduate school classmate, who is struggling through a cascade of devastating family crises. Ooh child, things are gonna get easier.
We have a mutual friend, another graduate school classmate who lost her 52-year old husband suddenly in the spring. I have lost touch with her, but my friend hasn’t. She gave me her number, and I am going to call her tonight. There is no statute of limitations on expressions of sympathy to others; I have learned this in the past 14-plus years. Today is the day. Ooh child, things are gonna get easier.
To my two friends on Facebook this morning: Ooh children, things are gonna keep getting easier.
About four years ago, I had a home health patient in a rural area. About a mile off the highway, there was a wooden cross. It was lovingly adorned with football items, and it appeared to be a memorial to a young man, which was confirmed by co-workers. I passed by it multiple times on my repeat visits to this patient’s home, always saying a little prayer for his family.
One day, a woman was stopped there, re-arranging the memorial items. I didn’t hesitate, I knew I was supposed to stop. I surmised it was his mother, and it was. I got out of the car, walked up to her and said, “I don’t know who you are, but I know you. I have two of those.” We instinctively hugged, shed a few tears, and gave each other the gift of understanding.
I couldn’t have survived these past fourteen years (five months and ten days) especially without my sisters, but also my brothers, my husband and sons, and my wide circle of family and friends. This support net has carried me through, and I know it will continue to carry me, as long as I keep reaching out to help connect with others who are living with grief, and letting them reach out to me. It can still be so hard, but every day brings me more strength, hope and understanding.
We may not know who they all are, but we know them when we see them. We must keep reaching out, and keep our arms open for their reaching in.
Ooh child, things are gonna get easier.