Pre-Grief

I know the five stages of grief are real and yet unpredictable. Will the anger run pervasively across my body, like static cling? Will the negotiating be brief, and will depression follow interminably until a moment of clarity, the moment when acceptance begins? A friend of mine who just lost her beloved grandmother said that her own grief mystifies her. I share the sentiment. I am not a cathartic cryer at appropriate moments, nor am I a stoic force of dry eyes and sage words. I feel my feelings and I feel them very deeply, and I generally find people exhausting when I feel good, so I often retreat to my feelings cave in moments of tremendous joy or sadness. This is a problem, especially living 1000 miles away from family. My family grieves together, in its own way, laughing through stories over Sunday casseroles and football, and I, removed from it, will be paused at a stop light for too long and find myself bawling. Because my uncle Kevin died. In February. He died. And I can't believe I'm never going to see him again.

I am also removed from my family's grief because I do not share the vision of the same pearly gates. Oh, I believe in Heaven. But I believe it's not ours yet. I believe in a Savior who is coming back, who will call the righteous forward and take them to that eternal home of peace and life when it is time. So all those Mufasa adages, "I'm sure he's looking down on us now..." and "Your uncle is probably playing poker in God's pool room right now" ring hollow for me.

So as I received the call today that my Nana, one of the most companionable, adorable, hilarious people I will ever know, has been brought home to die in relative comfort, I can feel the mysterious grief besetting me. I can feel the numbness starting to encroach. I can feel the disconnect, that wide gulf pushing me out into my boat looking back on everyone I love still standing on the shore.

And all I want to do is eat a whole tray of brownies.