By Kathy Deters
My two younger children participated in a grief counseling group at their previous elementary school. It was a great resource, and one that I am tremendously grateful to their school for having offered. They were able to express their feelings openly and honestly, surrounded by peers who were going through similar experiences. But as with a good bachelor party in Las Vegas, there was one cardinal rule: What happens in grief group stays in grief group. Unless you happen to be attending with your loose-lipped older sibling.
On days when I knew my children, then 10 and 7, had “The Group,” I would ask them after school, “So, how was group today?” Usually they made a craft that they were able to share; my favorite was my 7-year-old’s drawing of her dad’s favorite “Arrested Development” Bluth Banana Stand t-shirt. But one afternoon as they climbed into the car my son blurted out, “Mom!!! Isabella said bad things about you in grief group!”
As is the custom with most little sisters, my 7-year-old placed her older brother in a chokehold and politely reminded him that tattling wasn’t cool, and snitches get stitches. And as is the custom with most big brothers, he ratted her out anyway.
“She said you were a mean and bossy wife!” my son yelled.
I admit, as someone who had just lost her husband a few months before and was still dealing with all the requisite guilt that comes with being a survivor, the accusation stung a bit. But I couldn’t let it show in front of my children; I wanted them to know that whatever emotion they were feeling, it was completely valid. Even if it felt like a tiny dagger being twisted in my heart.
“She WAS a mean and bossy wife!” my 7-year-old screamed.
Deep breath, count to ten.
“What did I do that was mean and bossy?” I asked in the sweetest Disney princess voice I could muster.
“You yelled at Daddy for drinking too much beer!”
For the record, I have no recollection of ever having yelled at my late husband for drinking too much beer, but if she said I did, I’m sure I must have. I’m convinced that my children, like our former FBI director, maintain copious notes on all our conversations and interactions. To that all I can say is, lordy, I hope there aren’t tapes.
I’d also like the record to show that my husband was by no means a heavy drinker. He wasn’t even a moderate drinker. He had a couple of beers a week, at most. Just as some men only read dirty magazines for the articles, my husband only drank fancy beers for the cool bottles and holiday flavors. “Look, honey, this bottle has a picture of a pop-up camper in the snow! And I bought this one because the girl on the label looks just like you! Hey, I found an ale that tastes just like conversation hearts! And this one tastes like candy canes!” It should be noted that after my husband passed away I eventually mustered the courage to clean out the storage room in our basement and discovered that he had been using it as a wine cellar of sorts, but instead of storing high-end bottles of vintage cabernets, he was using it to hide cases of expired pumpkin ale. But I digress.
Anyway, back to the mean, bossy wife. While I have no recollection of ever having yelled at him about his meager beer consumption, if I did, it was most likely for one of two reasons: 1) I was worried about his health. Given that he had already had one heart attack, it was a legitimate concern, though he was always quick to point to some study in some men’s magazine that claimed the key to heart health was a hop-heavy diet. Or 2) He had questioned my weekly Starbucks expenditures, to which I probably countered, “Oh yeah? And how much did you spend on that case of beer just because it has a picture of a moose playing bagpipes and wearing a kilt?” Men, please note: This is only a hypothetical example. Don’t scour the shelves for a beer bearing a picture of a moose in a kilt. To my knowledge, it doesn’t exist.
Anyway, regardless of what prompted the argument, the point is, it must have happened, and it made a lasting impression on my young daughter, who remembered me as being mean and bossy, and for yelling at her father for simply trying to enjoy his favorite frosty beverage. In turn, my son—my mama’s boy—yelled at his baby sister for sharing this embarrassing memory with others in their group. In my never-ending obsession with trying to support my children’s emotional health and well-being, I assured them both that however they choose to remember our marriage, however they remember me, however they remember their father, that’s okay, and it’s okay to share that with anyone who loves us enough to stick around and listen to the endless stories.
As we pulled into the garage, my kids told me that their assignment for the next grief group was to bring in a photo of their loved one so they could make picture frames. My daughter, who loves art, couldn’t wait to pick the perfect photo of her father, so we dug out a stack of pictures and began sorting through them for just the right one to share.
As luck would have it, Dad was holding a beer in the first photo in the stack. I discretely set it aside, thinking perhaps it wasn’t the best choice for a school setting, and moved onto the second. Guess what? Also a beer in hand. Slid it to the bottom of the stack and moved onto the third photo. Oh, look at that! Another beer shot. And to cap it off, in the fourth photo he had not one, but two beers in front of him. Did I feel vindicated? Maybe a little.
As is human nature, my son only wanted to remember his parents as we appeared in the photos that we posted on Facebook: Loving. Devoted. Harmonious. Happy. Perfect. But we weren’t. We were far from it. There were fights over the cost of fancy beer and too much Starbucks and who should do what chores and whether we were saving enough for retirement, about whether we could afford a vacation that year and if one of us still carried a flame for someone she dated 20 years ago (yes, it was me, and yes, I still did. First loves are hard to forget).
It can be tempting at times to gloss over all those fights, flaws and imperfections, to honor the dead by burdening their reputation with the heavy mantle of “saint.” It puts those who are still in our lives at a terrible disadvantage, however; it forces them to live up to impossible standards that never really existed to begin with. But more than that, when we deny those real, true memories, bit by bit, we erase the existence of that flawed, imperfect person we once held dear. And they are worth remembering, hops and all.
For information on Grief Share at St. Mark Presbyterian on Wednesdays from 6:30-8:30, Click here.
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