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April first is never a joke for me. I dread April Fool's Day, year after year, as it is the day I lost my hero. The day time stopped turning for me in that single second of the phone ringing. I was nineteen. My first child was six months old. My life was so full of changes, and suddenly, in the blink of an eye, my dad was gone. He was thirty-nine.
I am now forty-four years old. Let me say this... to outlive a parent, at such a young age, leaves you with an emotional tornado. Yes, if life goes as you expect, to bury your parent is not unheard of. But it does not make it any easier. For me, one of the most difficult things through this process has been the comments that others have made. Though I know in the minds of others their words are meant to comfort, it always leaves me with the taste of a rotten lemon.
Please don't tell me that you know how I feel. I will never repeat those words to another person. Contrary to popular belief it is not comforting. I've learned to nod and accept the usual hug. But my brain is screaming, as if in the mosh pit of an underground concert. NO, you DO NOT know how I feel. Nor will I know how you feel after losing someone. Each person loves differently, as well as grieves differently. Yes, we will both go through the excruciating pain of our heart breaking. But you do not know how I feel.
I do not want to appear unappreciative. It has just become an instant response when someone feels they share something in common. But let's not. Thank you for acknowledging the loss. Thank you for attempting to make me feel as if I am not alone. But please don't tell me that you know how I feel. I would love to ask, 'Did you have to help raise your siblings, because your mother fell apart?' Or better yet, 'Did your siblings have to stand by and watch your hero gasp for his last breath?' I know, cold, right? But it is immediately where my mind goes. 'Did you fight with the so-called parents of your hero over the placement of the empty shell of the body of the son they chose to abandon at the age of seventeen?' The questions could go on and on. I swear it is a miracle I have a tongue left after so many years of biting it.
If the subject comes up in conversation, it is okay to tell me that you are sorry for my loss. Because I know you are. Believe it or not, it is even acceptable to ask permission to inquire on how we lost him at such a young age. If you feel the need to share your story of losing a parent with me, that is fine too. I will also tell you that you have my most sincere condolences. I will sit and listen, sympathize, hug you... whatever I may do to help. But I will also acknowledge that I will never know how you feel, because I am not you. You are not I. I will tell you that it's okay to be angry. Just don't stay in the land of anger. It is okay to cry, because it hurts. It hurts more than if someone physically dug a hole in your chest and ripped out your beating heart. But beyond that, I have no idea what you went through. Nor do you know how it felt to go through my loss.
Love me. But don't pity me.
Offer an ear, but please don't if you truly don't want to listen.
But above all else... never tell me you know how I feel.
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