My dad died very suddenly three days ago.
The first few seconds of that morning phone call will be burned into my memory for the rest of my life; the one where I heard my youngest brother’s voice quivering as he told me that my father had passed away in his sleep while on a cruise with my mom on his 70th birthday. The words sent me immediately to my knees on the front lawn and sometimes I feel like I’m still there, at least a good part of my heart is.
Since then, I’ve been what I would call a Grief Zombie; walking around in an odd, contradictory haze of searing pain and complete numbness, which each like to take rapid turns overpowering me. It’s as-if I’m being sucker punched by sadness one second and bear hugged by gratitude the next.
But all the while, since that life-altering phone call (as those who have experienced the loss of someone they love, know) I’ve had to continue to do stuff; take the kids to school, buy bananas, go to the gym—partly because things still need to get done, and partly because these mundane, ordinary things help keep you from completely losing it in the face of the pure insanity of your reality.
Over the last three days, as I’ve navigated parking lots, waited in restaurant lines, and sat on park benches, I’ve done so, pushing back tears, fighting to stay upright, and in general, being just seconds from a total, blubbering, room-clearing freak out.
I’ve felt like I’ve wanted to wear a sign that says: I JUST LOST MY DAD. PLEASE GO EASY.
I mean, other than my embarrassingly bloodshot eyes and the occasional puberty-recalling break in my voice, it’s not like anyone would know what’s happening inside me or around me.
And while I don’t want to physically wear my actual circumstances on my chest, I know that if I did, it would probably cause people around me to give me space or speak softer or move more carefully, and it would probably make the impossible, almost bearable.
But even as I’ve wished that people could see the personal hell that I’m going through, I’m aware of the acute blindness that I usually live with and the tremendous ego that exists in the request itself.
Why am I so special?
Why is my pain any more pressing than anyone else’s?
Why do I assume that everybody but me is alright?
Why do I expect everyone around me to be any sturdier than I feel?
This week, I’ve been reminded that I am surrounded by Grief Zombies all the time. Maybe they aren’t mourning the sudden, tragic passing of a parent, but wounded, broken, pain-ravaged people are everywhere, everyday stumbling all around me—and yet most of the time I’m fairly oblivious to them:
Parents whose children are terminally ill.
Couples in the middle of divorce.
People grieving loss of loved ones and relationships.
Kids being bullied at school.
Teenagers who want to end their lives.
Spouses whose partners are deployed in combat.
Families with no idea how to keep the lights on.
Young moms with little help, little sleep, and less sympathy.
Yet none of them wear the signs.
None of them have labels.
None of them come with written warnings reading, FRAGILE: HANDLE WITH CARE.
And since they don’t, it’s up to you and me to look more closely and more deeply at everyone around us; at work, or at the gas station, or in the produce section, and to never assume they aren’t all just hanging by a thread.
We need to remind ourselves just how hard the stories around us might be, and to approach each person as a delicate, breakable, invaluable treasure—and to go easy.
As you walk, drive, and click around this week, people won’t be wearing signs but if you look with the right eyes, you’ll see the signs.
Life is fragile. Hold it carefully.
People are fragile. Handle them gently.
You are fragile. Take it easy.
