Mourning Fog obscures the view.
MOURNING FOG
My father died almost two weeks ago, and I’ve been wandering around in a Mourning Fog ever since.
Even though Dad’s death was expected, and even though I’d suffered innumerable bouts of anticipatory grief as Dad has declined these past few years, being present at Dad’s last breath has unmoored me.
Now that the rituals of mourning are over, the friends and family have gone home and the funeral foods eaten, I walk about stunned.
My father’s dead.
I’m alive.
I’m also at the front of the line: there’s no more buffer between death and me. As one friend who lost his parents years ago says, “I’m now bucking the wind for the family.” It’s different, being at the leading edge.
MY FATHER’S DESK
Yesterday, I gave my father’s desk to a stranger.
My parents purchased the desk in the early 1980’s as part of furnishing their library, complete with matching bookcases and cabinets in a room with a fireplace and a sofa. Every time my parents downsized, this furniture was rearranged and pieces passed on to grandchildren setting up their first homes. But the desk stayed with Dad right up to the end.
It’s seven-and-a-half long and has three narrow drawers and three deep ones. In his prime, it was at this desk that Dad kept meticulous records of his finances and filed his correspondence with his children and grandchildren. It was at this desk that he wrote his memoirs, which survive.
My father’s desk. When he was alive, it was always tidy. Here, we’re clearing out his room.
I’d hoped to donate it to a local non-profit, but ended up giving it to a stranger for his personal use. I’d guess he was in his seventies, and hale: not thinking about mortality at all.
This bothered me. I wanted him to know more about my father, or at least to acknowledge that he was taking a dead man’s desk, and that some day he’d die too – just like my dad.
This was the mourning fog descending without warning and despite the sunshine.
Mourning fog seems to consist of the condensation of thoughts about dying. What is it? What happens? What do I want to do before it’s my time?
The fog lifted by the time I returned to the pine table that is my desk, where I finished my work for the day. After yoga class, Tim and I had a light meal of fresh vegetables, homemade bread, some cheese and white wine. The air was clear when I went to bed.
MORNING FOG
Morning Fog – the meteorological kind.
Today, I woke in the fog – the meteorological kind – that descends on our valley overnight. I watched it burn off as the sun rose. Every day, my concentration improves. Today has been mostly sunny, and I’ve hung out laundry between paragraphs. But I’m keeping my eye on the sky, alert to every cloud that crosses the sun. Despite my vigilance, I know that mourning fog can descend unexpectedly. I’ll sit with it, till it lifts.
And it will lift.
This same mourning fog descended when my mother died.
This same mourning fog engulfed me when my mother died six years ago.
Mom’s death released her from the prison of vascular dementia, which erased her memory before rendering her immobile and mute. Even though her death was a relief, its finality nevertheless sapped my usual get-up-and-go. I turned inward, letting phone calls go to voice mail and not returning them. I shunned invitations. All I wanted to do was stay home. I was overcome with weariness, as if I were living underwater. My mother died, and my universe wobbled.
This time, I recognize my grief as both a kind of self-pity and as a time to decide yet again just how it is I want to live.
Dad in France, 1943.
My father survived infantry combat in Europe during World War II. He taught me life is a gift. I write about that here, every Wednesday. You can have these essays emailed by subscribing in the box at right.
Hello Deb,
I am sorry to hear of the death of your dear father. I know your fog well having lost my father and then my mother. It was very difficult when my mother, my last parent, died. She was the lifeline to my life and now there was no one to take of me when I grew up. I was in my late 60s then. It is difficult living in this world without your parents at times. That’s when you become them. The fog will lift as you know with the passing of time. Take care of yourself. Sending my condolences and peace.
Hugs, Lori Palmer
Thanks for reaching out, Lori. All best, xxx
In the past 3 years, I have lost 3 good friends, my Mom and worst of all my husband. Someone sent the following to me and it is so true: The death of a spouse is different than other losses, in the sense that it literally changes every single thing in your world going forward. When your spouse dies, the way you eat changes. The way you watch TV changes. Your friend circle changes (or disappears entirely).Your family dynamic/life changes (or disappears entirely).Your financial status changes. It effects your self-worth, your self-esteem, your confidence, your rhythms, the way you breathe, your mentality, your brain function, your physical body, your hobbies and interests, your sense of security, your sense of humor, your sense of womanhood . EVERY.SINGLE.THING.CHANGES. You are handed a new life that you never asked for and that you don’t particularly want. It is the hardest, most gut-wrenching, horrific, and life-altering of things to live with.
Hello, Wendy, I almost lost my husband in January when he had a quintuple by-pass. That was scary and life-changing enough. But to go through what you are going through is indeed horrific. This happened to a good friend 5 years ago and I realized that for everyone who goes through this the process is the same – deep and relentless grief which is we all hope followed by the long process of making a new life. My friend wrote letters to her husband which she shared with our writing group. Mostly she wept as she read. She was buoyed by her children and grandchildren. Eventually her letters turned into diary entries. Most of her grieving was private though as she was not a gregarious person but a gentle and sensitive reflective sort. There is nothing to say to you that does not sound clichéd. I am at a loss after reading your words. Love to you and hope to you and courage to you. My friend recently took a singles cruise and enjoyed it. She has taken courses at our Seniors Centre. It has probably taken her longer than most to overcome her loss, regrets and her previous life. I will stop here. I am deeply sorry for your loss.
Diana, I thank you for this comment. Even though you write, “There is nothing to say . . . I am at a loss after reading your words,” you have shown me (yet again) the power of stories to connect. I think you have provided a helpful model in a difficult situation by acknowledging Wendy’s experience and grief and by telling two stories (yours and your friend’s) about how other people have coped. I thank you for helping me process Wendy’s comment; I hope it also helps her.
Thanks so much. Time does help. I also was blessed to have 2 boys (young men now) and their presence is a help too. There is a lot about grief that is the same regardless of the relationship and a lot that is very personal. It has been 2 1/2 years for me that I am missing my husband, my Mom died in February. My Mom had dementia and I always felt she died in bits and pieces. Her death was almost a relief as the person my Mom was had vanished years ago. My husband had melanoma in his eye of all places. Even though Wills Eye Hospital was able to remove the tumor and restore his sight, the cancer spread to his liver and bones. My husband had a very weakened body but he was mentally alert and himself to the end. The night before he passed we watched Jeopardy-his favorite. He got Final while I floundered and couldn’t even guess. I miss him every day but I am surviving.
Thanks so much for your thoughts and concerns. You too Deborah.
I’m so sorry for your losses, Wendy. May the memories of your loved ones bless you.
My dear Deb, No one can prepare for the fog that descends upon you at the los of someone close. And no one is closer then a parent or spouse or child. Bernie’s passing has made me re-evaluate my living and more importantly, how I’m living. Wishing to return my mom’s mantra – each day is a gift. We will grieve and then reinvigorate. I’ll join you on this next path. Hugs.
Linda, Uncle and Niece both lived each day as a gift. Bernie after surviving his infantry days; your mom after overcoming each health challenge – until she didn’t. It behooves to practice the lessons they each learned at such a price. xxx
My sweet, beautiful soul friend
..you are…
When I became aware that your Dad passed I was so glad you were there with him.
Reading what you just wrote is so beautiful and so true to how we go through the process of accepting and walking through the passing of our parents…and our journey….about death and letting go.
You helped me so much when I read what you wrote….aging and letting go of a lifetime ….and knowing now we are now the front line…again..gratitude and acceptence ….with humble hearts…
The fog comes and goes with me too and knowing we are connected…all of us with this journey….of love and sharing…
I appreciate your deep sharing and beautiful writing….it reaches my heart and many others..
Hugs filled with light and love
Laurie(Aylanah..)
Thank you for these kind words.
Beautiful, universal truths here Deb, and also completely personal. Thank you for including the picture of his desk. I wanted to see it as I read your words. A friend said to me when my father died: “when your father dies you lose the roof.
Now, you are the roof.”
Nothing standing between us and the abyss is the way I think of it. We are the line holders, for awhile, for our children and grandchildren.
You are in good company I can see, by the lovely comments here, arm in arm my friend . Sending lots of love.
I think it was you who told me when my father died “your world must seem slightly tilted”. And that about sums it up. The world is the same. Everyone walking around me is the same. The shop is the same. But not. My place was different , tilted. Maybe that’s part of your mourning fog. You’ll find a new equilibrium, the world will appear straight, and you’ll carry your father with you (don’t forget I’m a geneticist!).
Thanks for reminding me of my own words!