How to handle my grief allows my space to enjoy my memories again.
I write this article to bring you a glimmer of hope if you are grieving. Before we continue, I need to address the issue. Grief sucks.
That feeling of gasping for air when you struggle to keep your head above water. While time depends on your situation, the world keeps moving on. I’m not here to bring your life down with destructive grief. Mourning the end of life, relationships, careers, or dreams is a hard thing. The past decade has familiarized me with the heavy blanket of loss.
Now for hope. I’m here to share how helping a stranger, hearing “Love is like a butterfly,” and the ever-changing leaves helped me find the gifts hidden in grief. What does grief have to do with Dolly Parton’s songs? Usually, nothing at all. This morning, absolutely everything.
I encountered the grocery store, hoping to grab something while the orthodontist adjusted my child’s braces. As I walked through the automatic doors, the 70s air conditioning and music blasted me. Grabbing a basket, I turned to acknowledge the attendant. But he wasn’t at his station.
The attendant was kneeling next to an elderly gentleman by the vitamin shelf. He was struggling to help the man to his feet. I walked over and asked if I could offer assistance. They both looked relieved and agreed.
“I’ll count to three, okay?” instructed the fallen gentleman.
Each of us extended an arm, and the gentleman leaned on us. Under the feet of three men, this man got back on his feet. Thanking us both, he seemed more embarrassed than anything. He mentioned that his son was picking up medication from the pharmacy, so the greeter went to find him. I still worried about his stability, and I volunteered to stay with the gentleman. We chatted while we waited. A few times, he referred to me as “young lady.” Bless his sweet heart as the silver streaks in my hair passed by. When the greeter returned with the man’s son, we said our goodbyes.
Noticing the time, I hurried to gather the items on my list. As I walked through the aisles, I noticed my mood changing. The melancholy seeped in, omnipresent. Shaking it off, I refocused on shopping. Collecting the items on my list, I felt tears prick at my eyes.
What is happening in the world?
In the last aisle, a song broke through my attention. “Love is like a butterfly,” played throughout the store. Suddenly, I was three years old, climbing into my parents’ bed to watch “Dolly” perform. My parents adored Dolly. Her music was the soundtrack to many family trips.
“Love is like a butterfly” always makes me smile and sing. But this time, the song connected directly to the melancholy swirling inside. A lump of sadness filled my throat, and tears might fall. This grocery store is certainly not the place to deal with these big feelings. I quickly made my way to the front, checking out my items in haste.
I sat in the car, allowing myself to feel all the feelings. The deaths of my parents kept surfacing. After a decade-long battle with oral cancer, my father passed away. My mother died of COVID-19 during the global pandemic. I lost both parents before I turned fifty.
My parents no longer have annoying wake-up calls.
I feel a bit jealous of that gentleman's son. Helping his father reminds me that my parents are getting older. When we walk, I can't extend my arms. I won't make a fuss about it. There’s no one nagging them to remember to use a cane. Taking a deep breath, I wipe my tears and go to pick up my child.
Driving home, the explosion of vibrant autumn leaves caught my attention. They are a delightful distraction. Memories of my mother driving on the same road spark. She lived her whole life in southern Louisiana. The autumn colors of Michigan brought her endless joy. She would clasp her hands together and declare, “Look at God’s brush at work!”
“Look, God’s brush,” I said aloud. First, my teenage side-eye, and then we all started to giggle. I could feel our mom around us, recalling how we used to tease her about her childhood awe of autumn leaves. For a moment, she was back with us in the car.
Helping that gentleman, Dolly Parton’s songs and the autumn leaves brought me inner sadness. At first, it broke my heart with sorrow. After I allowed myself to feel sad, it opened up, showing me the deep connection that forever exists between my parents and me. It reminds people that the experiences or memories of those we’ve lost can bring joy again.
A series of events reminded me that sadness is the other half of love. Sadness guided me to the immense love my parents had, allowing me to take a sip. We reconnect again, even if just for a spell. Processing my sadness reminded me that love never truly disappears. It is safe in our memories. Walking through my sadness, rather than resisting it, gave me the space to experience the joyful love that always exists between us.
