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(👆In the photo: my father and me heading into my grandmother’s house in Miami, circa 1967.)
in the safe gray zone
He died seventeen years ago today. And, as Forrest Gump said, “That’s all I have to say about that.”Â
I don’t feel sad or wistful. I’m like a wheat field, waves of beige sameness. Neutral, undisturbed, bending with the wind.
I’ll acknowledge him, think about him, smile at a few good memories, and shake my head at some not-so-good ones. I’ll say hello to him (though I do this on other days too), and let him know that, of course, I’ll always remember him. But this day, like other days, is passing without much feeling or emotion.
Maybe it’s my age. Maybe that jittery excitement I felt as a kid when he took me, all blissed out and hyper-ecstatic, to the Miami Youth Fair is a thing of the past. I mean, blech, I was overjoyed at the sight of cotton candy! I just don’t get the happiness jitters anymore the way I did when I was young.Â
(photo: silly me, Miami, circa 1967)
The goal, now, is to keep that sensor needle in the middle gray zone, and not let anything pull it into the red.Â
For too many years, after the sudden death of my son Sam, I existed in the red—an exhausting place to be.
So I guess, though not consciously, I’ve developed a kind of self-sensing (defense) mechanism within me that steadies me so I don’t go (feel) too far down or too high up. Even when something so absolutely wonderful occurs that my heart should be bursting, something holds me back in the safe gray zone.
Meanwhile, I have experienced joy again. I am living and eating good food and having meaningful conversations. And I do have a lot to look forward to in this coming year.
So, here’s to you, Dad.
Miss you.
Love, D
an excerpt from my book Willower: Rewriting Life After Unimaginable Loss
dust
It had been eight months since Sam’s funeral. Days: 254.
My dad wasn’t supposed to die this day: January 9, 2008. He’d been out shopping. He went to bed unusually early, feeling a little under the weather, and passed away that night. My stepmother, Betty, called the next morning, to tell me about my father’s last moments, how he had smiled before closing his eyes. “It was the most beautiful death I’ve ever seen, Deanna.”
My warrior-like father had been living with cancer, fighting it every day, for twenty-three years. There were those days when it seemed like the end, and I’d drive across the state to be with him and say goodbye. “Dad, if it’s possible, if you see him, will you make sure Sammy is okay? I love you.” Whenever he hugged me, he’d squeeze so hard it hurt. I miss that pain, those bone-crushing bear hugs.
At my father’s funeral, I felt numb, dehydrated. Nothing but dry bones. This loss went right through me, leaving a gaping hole—no jagged edges, no bleeding, no tears. I had known this day would come, but I hadn’t known I’d be unable to cry or feel anything at all.
I kept replaying the phone call we’d had a few weeks before he died. He was worried about me.
“Sweetheart, you will experience joy again. You’ll see.”
“No, Dad, sorry, I won’t.” Why didn’t I just fake it? Lie, assure him, so he’d die believing that I’d be okay?
I’ll always remember what he used to tell me: “Sweetheart, you’ve got to keep living. Eat good food, have meaningful conversations, and delight in an occasional vodka and tonic. And remember to always keep learning. Never stop learning. I’m so damned proud of you, Deanna Lynn.”
(from Chapter 8. Grieving)
Willower.org 
Sending hugs. I love your honesty.đź’śMerleMerleRSaferstein.com “Wh
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Thanks Merle. Hugs back!
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