'Tis a sigh that is wafted across the troubled wave,
'Tis a wail that is heard upon the shore.
'Tis a dirge that is murmured around the lowly grave,
Oh hard times come again no more.
This week, on Wednesday afternoon, my coworker/mentor welcomed a baby girl into the world. Later that night, another coworker/friend received the call that her stepson had left this world. He was only 23 and died in a motorcycle accident.
I went to the visitation tonight and my heart broke for his family and friends. Most people there were sobbing, but several there were wailing. The type of wail that is rarely heard and would almost instantly make even the most unemotional person in the room cry ... simply because of the sound. I couldn't stop thinking about how much pain that room encompassed, especially for my coworker.
Nobody really talks about crying, and I think it's sad that we try so hard to keep that urge locked up. And when we see or hear someone sobbing, we're usually pretty ill equipped when it comes to comforting them. I don't think I understood the distinction between sobbing and wailing until my father died in August of a heart attack. In the days that followed, my brother, sister-in-law and I were in complete shock, scrambling to plan the funeral and just make it through each day. But at least once a day, one of us would break down and begin to wail -- not just cry, wail. The kind that makes your heart hurt and can't be ignored or willed away. Usually when nobody else was around and we no longer felt the self-imposed need to maintain composure. The sound was unmistakable and heartbreaking. Much of that time is a haze, but I can remember sitting at my brother's kitchen table, writing my dad's obituary, and feeling almost panicked that I had to sum up my dad's life in so few words. I went outside, initially to take a break and walk around the neighborhood. But as soon as I stepped outside I was flooded with grief. I could no longer move, so I sat down in the driveway and began to wail. The same wailing I would experience immediately after the funeral when all the guests had left the sanctuary and it was just my family in the room. The finality of it all began to sink in. And honestly, I had craved that moment. In order to stay composed while giving the eulogy, I made a (ridiculous/unhealthy) deal with myself that I could cry for hours if I needed to once the service was over, but I couldn't really afford to cry too much during the funeral. That type of suppression only makes things worse. But once that sudden grief overtakes you, there's really nothing you can do but let it run its course, basically to the point of exhaustion. At least that's all I knew to do at the time. And it would continue on this way for the next nine months. I could make it through a work day or a movie or a Christmas Eve service, but once I was safely inside my car, away from anyone else, I would break down. During those months I would also cry in front of other people, but not in the same, raw way. There was a short reprieve from that demanding emotion, and it finally came to a head the night before Father's Day.
Now, with less than a month until the one year anniversary of my dad's death, the wailing seems to have ceased. I would imagine part of that is due to the passage of time, but I hope on another level it's also a sign of slow healing. Maybe the countless tears I've shed can be put to good use. I hope I can be there for other hurting hearts, listening to their stories without needing to share mine in return. But if they can't find the words to share their stories, their tears will speak volumes.
