Good grief

This morning I had a dream about grief. In it, I was in a large hospital waiting room, in the middle of the night, no carpet, no televisions, no aquariums or books, just a large austere room with 12 foot high ceilings and those plastic chairs that are used for large meetings grouped around the room. The floor was highly polished square tiles like you would find in a school hallway. At the far end of the room, near one corner, was one of those cut-out windows into a receptionist or nurse's station. There was a customary shelf with a black ink pen setting in a stand with a ball chain attached.

A friend of mine, a colleague from work, who is a devout Christian, was standing in the room with me, leaning on the shelf, and we were having a conversation. I was pacing the room like a caged tiger, back and forth along the longest section of wall. Our voices had that echo effect from the large empty room.

My friend was a volunteer at the hospital. He provided "comfort" for terminally ill patients and their families. I was disturbed by this. I felt that he was intruding on what should be a very personal, very private time in the lives of the grieving. I secretly believed that he was doing this only to feel good about the service he was providing. My words were only mildly accusing as I suggested that he might be addicted to vicariously experiencing the strong feelings of sadness and anguish that accompany the death of a loved one. He waved that off and was quietly adamant that people needed this and that perhaps it was my heart that was cold.

This is when I woke up.

Death and I haven't had any personal interaction since the deaths of my grandmothers more than a decade ago. The strongest grief that I have ever felt was back in 1985, when I woke in the middle of the night sobbing over the loss of my maternal grandfather, Roy Steele. He had died in October of 1980. I hadn't really grieved my loss until that time. That's how long it took to hit me that a huge part of my life, a very influential adult for me, was permanently gone.

This December will mark the two year anniversary of my father's stroke, from which he is still recovering. Over the last two years, two close colleagues of mine from work have lost their fathers. They both tell me to treasure the moments that I have remaining with my dad.

A few weeks ago, a coworker of mine lost a young nephew in an accident. My mind cannot wrap itself around losing one of my children. I would feel completely inadequate to assisting in assuaging the grief of the parents.

I'm not a grief counselor, obviously. I don't know the "stages" of grief. But I do know that it is natural. A part of you is gone when you lose someone.

Maybe, my friend in my dream was right. He wasn't trying to offer understanding to the people he sought to help. He was just offering a shoulder.

I need to call my dad today.