The death parade

It began in January.  I found out on my birthday that a good man had died in a tragic traffic accident.  Matt Smith was a father, a husband and a friend I met while we spent a few years at BYU as J finished his degree.  He was survived by his amazing wife, Trish and three lovely children, one still in her infancy.

"Are you there, God?  It's me, Sarah.  I'd really like an explanation on this one."

Well, God's not talking.  I guess I got the answering machine.  Please leave a prayer at the sound of the beep.

My father died in April.  My estranged father.  The father I can't even talk about without getting physically ill.  Suffice it to say, most people die the same way they live.  And even after they are dead, they still come back to haunt you with the humiliating tawdriness they surrounded themselves with during their lives.

The bright side of it was, my sister and brother were able to see what I could never have articulated to them.  And now, they get it.  Really get it.  The horrible part of it was that they were both deeply hurt by him at the end and that's why they understand.  I would have done just about anything to keep them from that.  They deserved better.  And you know what?  I deserved better, too.

God's still not picking up the heavenly mobile.  I'm not sure I even want the low down on this particular plan.

A few weeks later, my godfather died.  Same disease as his brother, my father.  Very different circumstances.  Awful but by now I'm growing numb with the shock of it all.

That brings us to the most recent death which occurred a mere few weeks ago.  My husband's grandfather.  Suicide.  Frankly, he was the only grandfather I had for many years now as both of my own grandfathers have been gone for a long time.  Shock began in earnest.

The shock has worn off now and I've been sunk down in gloom for more than a week.  I've cried a lot and spent the time not crying mostly trying to not cry.  I'm overwhelmed and exhausted.  J's worried about me.  I'm worried about me.

My good friend took a look at me yesterday with naked nails and was really concerned.  Tell tale signs, I suppose.  My brother thinks maybe a therapist would help.  The mere thought of trying to expound on the background tale leading to this emotional turmoil is crippling.  Every time someone gives me a platitude about seeing people on the other side, the grief and anger wells up and I want to smack them.  Those words don't mean anything to me.  Not today.  Maybe not never.

I need this outside of me without have to give a back story for context.  I've bottled it up thinking that it might hypothetically hurt my family's feelings but it's hurting me to keep it festering in my emotional cellar.  These have been great losses, some more than others and this needs light to heal.

Truthfully, Matt's death is the most painful by far.  We'd lost touch with he and Trish in the intervening years since BYU and recently reconnected with them both on Facebook.  They were younger than us by a fair number of years and it slams home your own mortality and the potential fleeting nature of your own life.

Time is what I need now.  Time to process and decompress.  Also, some time for people to not die for a little while so I can cope.  Everyone on board with that?  Pretty please?  Maybe pencil Death in for six months out or so, just for me.  I suspect it probably won't go down that way but it can't hurt to ask, right?

In case anyone is still reading, I'm ok.  It feels better putting it outside my head.  And if you are watching your own death parade go by, you're not alone.  It sucks in many inexplicable ways, but get it out or it will eat you alive from the inside out.  And death shouldn't have hold over the living.  Death doesn't get a seat on the bus today.  Death has to wait it's turn today.