death

I Forgive You

/ Katie Wigington / 1 Comment


He sat in my kitchen, in a chair with one leg pulled up to his chest, and his chin on his knee, watching me cook. I was cooking and talking to the dog, and bantering back and forth with our 12-year-old son, when I said something that made him laugh. And because I like it when people think I’m funny, I stopped and smiled at him—you know the smile? The one that says, see, I’ve still got it. He was smiling back. 

“What?” I asked. 

“I don’t hate you anymore. He said.

“Ha! I don’t hate you anymore either.” 

It was mostly true for both of us. 

The 12-year cold war. Over just like that. Except for a few skirmishes.   

As the years went by, I imagined, as we got older, and his parents did too, I would help him take care of them. I imagined that someday we would be roommates, with separate rooms, with him beating me at Scrabble, and us arguing over politics or something equally arguable. I imagined we would be grandparents together, both vying for top spot on the grandparent roll call. 

On December 31st. 2010, I called him to say Happy New Year. And I meant it with all my heart. He said Happy New Year back to me—and I could tell he meant it too. Six days later my son called me telling me his dad had just died. 2011 was not a happy year at all.  I cried for days. I cry still. That grandchild I imagined is here now but he won’t get to know him. So many moments lost. 

That day in my kitchen was the closest either one of us ever got to an apology.  Neither of us ever said I forgive you—but I’m sure we both meant that. I meant that. I guess I can’t put words in his mouth now. 

My life changed that day. A big dark cloud disappeared but I didn’t notice it until later. I can say now… that when all that hurt and anger left, I started breathing. My brain started working better and my life started falling into place. 

If I have learned nothing else in my life, I’ve learned to forgive. Even when we don’t want to. Even when we think that is that last thing we will ever do– it’s what we should do to free ourselves from the hate that devours our heart and spirit. It’s a gift to yourself to forgive—and maybe a gift to the other person too, but that’s okay, because you just never know.

The Grief of December

/ Katie Wigington / 4 Comments
Grief never feels good. If you ever lost a loved one, you know this. It could be a year ago or 40 years ago; it changes sometimes, the pain less sharp and sometimes more. It’s an injury without blood, a gaping wound that never really heals.  
Most of us learn to live with it– the missing piece to our psychic puzzle. There is always a feeling of something missing. Someone missing. Some of us try to fill the hole with medication or new shoes, or booze. It doesn’t work.
Years after my mom died, I picked up the phone to call her. I realized I couldn’t remember her number and then realized why and embarrassed at myself for such a ridiculous fopaux, (Seriously, how can you forget your mom has died?) hung up the phone. I can’t remember if I cried—or cleaned house. One of the two, I have no doubt.  
My 27-year-old brother died December 19th 1982 from complications due to injuries sustained in a motorcycle accident that occurred a little over 100 days prior. My 53-year-old mother died two years later on December 9th. The holiday season has proven to be my most difficult season to get through and the list of people I grieve for has grown substantially since my brother and mother died. But, there is always a holiday, or a hallmark of some kind, birthdays, death days, the last time you talked. Any month can be the bad one but for me it’s always December.
I know there are the seven stages of grief, but the truth is there are no rules for how to do it, or how long, or how sad you should be, or how much you should cry, or if you should cry at all. Everyone grieves how he or she grieves and if you become expert—through experience, how sad for you.
It comes in waves. It doesn’t matter how long ago someone left this world, it can feel like yesterday or it can feel like a long time ago and you wonder how you could be so sad for so damn long. For me, sometimes just smelling something like bubblegum will remind me of my brother and the endless baseball card bubblegum he shared with me when he was little. Earlier this year his best friend sent some pictures of my brother when he was young, and a few shortly before he died. I cried because I missed him… and I cried for what he is missing. A beautiful daughter he never met and three amazing granddaughters that would have owned him. He missed the best part of my life and his.
The “no rules” grief also applies for whom we are grieving. My sister just lost her horse after 21 years, and was devastated. When my son’s 14-year-old dog was put down, I watched his grief pour out in heavy sobs, he was beyond consoling. It was then I realized he was also grieving for the friends he lost in the war, the ones he never had time to cry for—and maybe his own innocence, left in the sands of Iraq. Postponed grief is the stuff that will kill you.
We walk around with a cloud of sadness. Not everyone sees it. Some people are oblivious to our teary eyes and our ability to skirt a subject that is sure to make the wave of sadness rush in. Some of us want to talk about it, some of us cannot.
Sometimes, grief can surprise us. When my son’s dad died unexpectedly two years ago, I was floored with grief and I woke up crying every day for weeks—still sometimes, I can’t think about this loss without tearing up. I never expected to feel that way, but I never expected him to die at 53 either.
My grief is always just below the surface. I don’t wear it like a badge—I don’t share it with strangers, or even all my friends. It’s just there and that is how grief works.
For me, grief is a reminder to live well, to be kind because we really don’t know what other people are going through and we really don’t know if someone won’t be here tomorrow.  I do put one foot in front of the other but I understand that isn’t always possible for everyone. When my son’s dad died, his grandmother understandably got a little crazy. When I asked my son (in an uncharitable moment) how he could put up with that he reminded me that losing your child trumps losing your father. His grief—made him smarter. His grandparents carry on; their strength is admirable their Japanese Buddhist durability intact, and I try my best to mimic them.
I know more than a few people hurting from grief right now. It always seems worse around the holidays. The empty seat syndrome, the missing piece of your heart, the special ornament with their name on it, more reminders than our hearts can bear—but bear we must.
This holiday season don’t be afraid to share stories about your departed loved ones with people that knew them or know you. Often you will find yourself laughing through a story instead of crying through the silence.
For all of you feeling the loss of a loved one please know this… you are not alone.  Many people are grieving over someone. We may not all wear it the same way—but we wear it.
If you are suffering from severe depression due to grief, please seek counseling — while I don’t think there are rules– I do think some people benefit from help with the grieving process.
see this link:
http://www.hopehospice.com/lossgrief.html
 Just a few of my missing pieces…Mom, Johnny, Dad, Jon, Johnny, Jon, Noodle & Smokie

There for the Grace of God go I.

/ Katie Wigington / Leave a comment

I woke up this morning thinking about a dinner conversation we had last night. All week long, I have heard disparaging words about Whitney Houston and her death, always using the “real heroes” are our soldiers, sailors and Marines in argument of her hero status.
Why does honoring one have to take from the other?  Heroes come in all shapes and sizes. For thousands of underprivileged (or call it like it is- dirt poor) kids in New Jersey and scattered around the U.S., Whitney Houston was a hero. She was a black woman who made it big– and she became successful, famous and wealthy by almost anyone’s standards. That her life fell apart is only a bit of her story- yet it’s the part some  people want to focus on.
I never understand why it always has to be one way or another. Why does my hero have to be your hero?  I have more than a few heroes. My son of course, even before he became a Marine and went to fight a war in Iraq- he was my hero. My dad- even though he was not the best dad, my mom, even though she was not the best mom, lots of writers, several friends for various reasons, a fireman I am related to, a few policeman I know and yes, the troops- the people that put themselves in harms way for our freedoms. I’m not one to idolize movie stars or musicians, it’s just not my thing, but I can see quite clearly why people do idolize them. Many people need to see a shining star within reach. It’s not a bad thing. I don’t understand the disdain.
I look at it like this. Whitney Houston was somebody’s mother, somebody’s daughter, somebody’s friend and so on. Why should her loved ones hurt any less because she wasn’t perfect, or a Marine or a soldier or fireman?  If you believe in God- and most of you do- why is her life less precious to God than anyone else’s?  
I was not one bit surprised by the death of Whitney Houston. I watched her downward spiral for a long time. I was however; surprised by the lack of compassion by so many people- people who thought the attention was over the top. I hate to think it was a racist thing, but I don’t remember anyone being this angry over the attention Amy Winehouse got for her untimely self induced death.
It’s not for me to say or you to say- who the “real” heroes are for anyone other than ourselves. But, if you can’t look at the world from a point of view other than your own, then you have my sympathy.  
As for Whitney’s demise-  There but for the Grace of God go I.