By Mary Kay Roth
Tucked away in the far back of one of my bedroom dresser drawers, I keep an old gray t-shirt, fairly nondescript, faded and frayed. But every now and then I take it out, hug it close and simply breathe in.
Tucked away in the far back of one of my bedroom dresser drawers, I keep an old gray t-shirt, fairly nondescript, faded and frayed. But every now and then I take it out, hug it close and simply breathe in.
I have hesitated telling people about this ritual, because frankly
it sounds a bit weird. The shirt smells musty and musky, no intrusion of store-bought
fragrance, just a timeworn and familiar scent of masculine. It’s my dad’s shirt,
and the moment I inhale I can feel his famous bear hug wrapping around me.
They say memory and smell are intertwined, the sense that most
likely triggers remembrance. A whisper of marigolds takes me back to my grandma’s
garden – a whiff of oil and gasoline transports me into the driver’s seat of my
leaky, rusty first car. Out of nowhere, a random odor can send you
hurtling back to a childhood memory and that t-shirt rockets me into my dad’s
arms.
My parents died three years ago now, only a couple months apart,
just shy of celebrating their 72nd wedding anniversary. Of course,
there’s fairly solid consensus that losing your parents – becoming an orphan of
sorts – is one of the most emotional and universal human experiences. The grief
of losing both mom and dad is a complicated beast that often presents a seismic
shift.
So, after those god-awful first weeks of loss, I did the hard work.
I read a stack of self-help books, clocked valuable hours in counseling and spent
meaningful time under the covers. I followed sage advice: No shortcuts, I plunged
straight through grief. I accepted all the yin and yang stuff about the depth of
your sadness balancing the depth of your love.
Rest assured, adages are mostly true. This too shall pass, and time
does soothe.
Then again. No matter how many books you read or hours you
ponder – the keepers of your family memories, the custodians of your family
history, are gone. I can never ask mom about the legacy of those mysterious table
linens buried at the bottom of her cedar chest.
Dad can no longer laugh through tales of when he taught me how to water
ski on lazy summer days. And nobody has a clue about all those strangers lurking
in fuzzy, black and white photographs so carefully culled and collected.
The jolt of losing a mom and
dad does eventually calm, yet at the same time it continues to deliver
unexpected wallops – thankfully not a constant ache but more
like unseen explosives unexpectedly tripped by ordinary, hum-drum events. Boxes of Russell Stover’s, poised innocently on store shelves,
can knock the stuffing out of me, oh how Dad loved that candy. Yep, you’re pretty
much ok, then suddenly out of the blue you catch a glimpse of something, the scent
of something, sneaking up sideways, and you’re done.
Society tells us to keep busy
and keep going, as we’re pretty much a quick-fix culture. I’m admittedly something of a slow learner. So, while I believe self-examination is good
for the soul, there is a moment to recalibrate. Three years and my sadness feels as threadbare as dad’s shirt.
At some point you put away self-help
books and tally up your collection of sacred blessings. As years pass, memories and loss weave their way
into the fabric of your life. You adjust, gracefully or not, on the far side of
the divide. You stake your claim: Your parents lived, loved and, if you’re
lucky, hugged. And in the end, you still have dad’s goofy messages stashed on a
cellphone – mom’s final grocery list, left unfinished on the kitchen counter –
and a treasure trove filled with family stories of love and resilience that
will generally get you through the night.
After
the loss of our parents, there will always be unanswered questions. Unexpectedly and periodically, the finality of
their departure will still smack us in the gut. And I’m guessing, here and
there, we will need to readjust our settings – something like when our GPS gets
all messed up – to follow our own true north.
Meanwhile,
I still have that old gray t-shirt, tucked in my dresser drawer.
How lovely. Can't wait to follow this blog.
ReplyDeleteWow, it's been three years! Those years went super fast for me, but likely painfully slow for you. Thanks for the heartfelt narrative that helps all of us deal with the loss of our parents.
ReplyDeleteLove your guts, your heart and all these special words! Thank you!
ReplyDeleteThe way those smells can instantly transport us through time still suprises me. I still have my mother's bottle of Shalimar; one whiff and there she is. Beautifully written. I look forward to reading this blog.
ReplyDeleteMary Kay, it’s lovely to see your writing again. This looks like a wonderful group of writers. I lost both of my parents six years ago, also just a couple months apart, just after their 70th anniversary, so I understand your perspective very well. The “unexpected wallops” continue; also, the impulse to pick up the phone to ask my mom something. But you do adjust. Thank you for a thoughtful and touching piece. Sharon Stephan
ReplyDeleteMary Kay, I actually read through the whole post today and it's lovely and so true.
ReplyDeleteThanks for sharing Mary Kay. You have put into words what I feel nearly everyday as cancer took my father four years ago and dementia, although my mother is still alive, has stolen her memories. These words remind me that I am not alone and that so many of us are grieving loved ones.
ReplyDelete