Poetic Therapy (a series) #3 - Absorbed suffering

One of the hardest things I experienced in life was the death of my father. I wasn’t exposed to death as a child. At the age of 36, I attended my first funeral in September 2014; my husband’s stepfather passed away from cancer complications. The next funeral I attended was four months later in January 2015. One of my father’s oldest sisters didn’t survive her cancer diagnose. The third funeral I attended was for my father. I was 39 years old and up to point in my life, death was not my burden. My father, a retired Marine, a Devil Dog, succumbed to the effects of cancer at the age of 63. My reaction to my father’s death was to immediately do everything my mother needed done. I tried my best to be busy through the pain. I cried alone while driving into work. I downed out my sobs with the sound of the shower. I isolated myself in my grief. I cried for the “one more day” that I didn’t get.

December 30, 2017 – a villanelle

The Marine’s body is under distress

His pulse is weaker as dying starts.

Death approaches with its dark caress.

The monitor beeps at cancer’s progress

and with a final breath, the Ghost departs.

The Marine’s no longer under distress.

Five offspring observing Daddy’s exodus,

as Mommy’s losing gains what death imparts.

Dead…his motionless hand resting lifeless.

The fire takes the empty frame, soulless;

heavy ashes representing what death set apart.

The Marine’s no longer under distress.

Grief continuing with life, nonetheless,

ending each December where his death starts.

Ashes reminding us of death’s caress.

Fatherless children sit with gray sadness

and a wife consumed by devastated hearts.

The Marine’s no longer under distress,

ashes reminding us of death’s success.

On the day my father passed away, I walked down the hospital corridor with a muffled cry. When I reached my father’s hospital room door, I put my hand on the door handle to open it. I paused as I looked through the partially opened curtain of the plexiglas window. I saw his right hand resting flat (palm side down) next to his right thigh; this is what line 9 represents and is the recurring vision I have when I think about the day my father died. As pointed out in "Grief and Loss Across the Lifespan: A Biopsychosocial Perspective", in order to cope with my father’s death, I used my position as the eldest sibling to take care of things my father would have taken care of (McCoyd et al,173-174). How does someone determine if they are “properly” grieving? The only person I may have been openly vocal with concerning my father’s death was my therapist. All tears and thoughts concerning my father’s death are grieved on paper. Poetry absorbs suffering.

• McCoyd, J. L. M., Koller, J. M., & Walter, C. A. (2021). Grief and loss across the lifespan: A biopsychosocial perspective (3rd ed.). Springer Publishing Company. https://doi.org/10.1891/9780826149640