Upon Reflection, A Self-Edit and Self-Correction

Friday, March 28th, 2008

If you read here two days ago, you read the post I wrote about finding some grief to be less about the loss and more about the show.

I’ve since erased that post.

Since then, I’ve done nothing but reflect on my own relationship with my godfather. The deeper I’ve dug, the more cause I’ve found for feeling ashamed – ashamed of my failings, mainly. There were so many things I could have done better – or just done. I could have visited more. I could have called more. I could have told him how grateful I was for his presence and guidance. I invited him to my wedding, but could have done more to see to it that he actually got there. I could have included him more prominently in the high points of life.

I did none of those things. The only thing that gives me any consolation is that after a few years of separation – brought on by me, mind you – I did initiate contact once again and at least for the last 2 years we were in touch.

But still, not often enough. And therefore that is small comfort when I think of what could have and what should have been. So now I, who used to talk of living a life with no regrets because hey, you can’t change the past, find myself inundated with them. This is the first time I’ve ever lost someone so close to me and felt that I did not do enough. Towards me, he far surpassed my own mother in grace and forgiveness – he was always helpful, gracious, and kind to me, always. Always.  Frankly, if I’m going to be honest, he was a better parental figure than both of my parents, certainly my useless father, and even, when it came to guidance and teaching about self-respect and epitomizing humility, my mother.

In thinking of my decidedly passive behavior towards him, I thought about that previous post. And began to wonder who I was to judge anyone else’s grieving process and the forms it might take.

For my part, my own regrets have brought about a contemplative silence that some might mistake for lack of feeling. In fact, it is the exact opposite. I am so overwhelmed by all of my realizations: that I should have done more, that I wanted to to do more but always thought I had more time, that I always felt that doing more required some ostentatious grand gesture, when all that was required was time and perhaps a little more thoughtful effort.

I have learned that too late. But in my learning, I also recognized that others might view my reticence as a lack of grief, when it is absolutely anything but. So again, how dare I judge another’s grief, or interpret it with any negativity?

I have listened to my aunt over the past several weeks talk to me about the things she did with and for my godfather, actions that didn’t just ease his final days but were comforting gestures of respect and friendship over several years. Simple things, mind you, but good and comforting things. I am humbled when I hear her speak. I am humbled and brought to further tears.

Oddly enough, over the last several weeks when I tried to contact him in the hospital I was always just missing him, somehow unsuccessful at finding him. He’d be moved from one place to another, or I’d catch his voicemail on his cellphone, or the hospital or nursing room staff wouldn’t pick up at all. My aunt, on the other hand, was always up to date, and I was reduced to hearing news of him from her or my grandmother. I remember feeling frustrated but also acknowledging privately that it was no more than I should have expected, that I could not come breezing in after my prolonged absence and expect to be granted an immediate full audience. Mind you, it wasn’t that he was deliberately avoiding me, or at least not that I felt so. Rather, it seemed more that the universe was allowing things to take their proper order – and I, in staying away and out of touch for so long, had weakened our universal relationship such that instant and frequent contact, especially at my behest, would be difficult to achieve.

One of the things that did prevent me from being a more frequent visitor, or so I thought, was our crappy car. Afraid to go too far afield with it, I sat here when I could have rented a car and visited for a morning or so, even well before he was in the hospital. I called him often. But I did not go to sit with him and chat, did not go to say hi, see if he needed anything, did not pack Pudding up to take him for a visit although I did so want him to see Pudding. Always I thought I would have more time. As soon as I got a new car, I told myself, me and Pudding will hightail it over there, yessirree.

Well, tomorrow I will have it.

And tomorrow is too late.

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More of Same

Thursday, March 27th, 2008

I’ll just say this right now – this is a continuation of my grieving process. At first, I contemplated not writing more on how I am feeling right now, thinking it might be “too much.” But too much for whom? It’s not as though I have scores of readers – and even if I did, as much as this is public, it is still my blog, and it should reflect my thoughts and my life. If you’ve read enough of my grief, sign off now and check back in a couple of days, when I will be no less upset but perhaps less inclined to write about it, I don’t know. For now, though, I have to go with what I’m feeling.

Which is really just loss.

It’s so odd how, upon losing someone, you feel as though the world should pause for a while as you regroup. It feels almost sacrilegious to have to go through the regular motions of life when someone very close to you has just lost their life. And because I tend to have a very morbid bent, every thought and action begins to get tinged with it. I eat something, and it occurs to me that he will never eat again. I look at Pudding, and think that Emmanuel was once a small boy just like him – and is now gone. Then I look at Pudding and realize that he, too, will one day be old and then gone – long long after I myself have departed, I pray. We’re all headed down that road, slowly dying with every breath.

The more his unrelenting absence hits me, the more dazed I feel. I think that’s the best word for it, dazed. It is still slowly sinking in that he is gone. I know this intellectually, but it still seems impossible. I actually had a moment earlier today where I felt that it was a mistake, or that I’d dreamt it. I keep thinking of all his work, and how I’ll never be able to call him again, to ask for advice, or a prayer, or to say hello. It just seems so terribly wrong, that there must be a mistake somewhere, somehow. I keep waiting for the phone call saing ooops! we screwed up, wasn’t him!

I called his cell phone. I don’t suppose that will be on for much longer, but for now, I wanted to hear his reassuring, gravelly grandfatherly voice, with its French cadence. Last week I read a story about a man whose long-dead wife’s voice was still on a voicemail message that he played daily just to feel close to her again. The phone company inadvertently removed it, but was able, after hearing of his plight, to retrieve it once again and put it back on his system. I know some small portion of what that man feels. For me, it’s still strange to hear Emmanuel’s voice on that voicemail and know that the essence behind it is gone, or at least no longer here on this plane. My heart keeps arguing that if his voice is still there, then he is, right? It just makes sense that a voice cannot exist without the person behind it. This is what my heart tells me, that it’s not about technology but about spirit.

I pray for him every day. I prayed when he was ill and I pray even more fervently now that he is gone, praying for myself and my family as well as for him. I hate grieving, I hate this whole period of disbelief where your world has been turned upside-down and you pray for a miracle that you know is not going to happen. It is a part of life, I know, but it is an awfully wrenching set of feelings that are disabling, fatiguing and frightening, and that are literally making me sick to my stomach.

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When God Leaves

Wednesday, March 26th, 2008

For many years, all my life, really, I have lamented the lack of relationship with my father. I’ve written about it, ranted about it, cried about it. What I’ve never written about was the man who was, in many ways, my father.

He was not a man with whom my mother had any sort of romantic relationship. He was a spiritual guide and advisor. It’s the sort of thing you hesitate to write about, because to refer to him as a pastor would be incorrect, but to refer to him in any vaguer sense implies cult.

There was nothing remotely cultish, although those unfamiliar with the more traditional religions of Africa might disagree out of ignorance and a reliance on Hollywood’s scary and extremely incorrect portrayals replete with zombies and scary shit being done in graveyards under a full moon. What they wouldn’t know is about the reverence for God – not a god, but God – and the desire for good, that really all religions aim for. (Well, most.)

I grew up without my biological father’s influence, but Emmanuel Cadet I knew from the time I was two. He worked diligently to help me outgrow a nasty fight with childhood asthma, a disease so serious to me that during a particularly serious hospital stay, my mother was told that I was not expected to live. As I got older, navigating the ways of high school and then college, it was he to whom I turned when life got crazy. It was he whose omniscience kept me on the straight and narrow. I look back at my life and realize at how many points I could have turned left instead of right, could have made some wrong decisions that would have impacted me tremendously.

Thanks to him, I did, for the most part, what was right. I say for the most part because I, like all humans, have a will and a mind, one that doesn’t always take too kindly to influence from the outside world. Like most fathers, he knew what I should be doing. Like most children, I knew he was right but sometimes – not often – did what I felt like doing anyway. I heeded his advice often enough to be here today, relatively happy and sane. The times I didn’t heed his advice, well, let’s just say I know better now. Sometimes life is about experiences.

I lost touch with my spiritual godfather recently, in no small part due to seeking out a new path for myself. That came about mainly because I was trying to find ways to help my mother. He was telling me she could not be helped, but I felt that I had to keep trying, if only to satisfy myself and the universe that I had done all I could.

Sadly, about 4 years went by with no contact. A mistake on my part, definitely. Eventually, however, my path came full circle and I was led right back to him. He welcomed me with open arms, accepted my apologies and explanations with grace and a wave of the hand, and all was well.

I was glad because in many ways, I trusted him the way I’ve trusted no one else before or since. I knew that his advice was dependable. He had proven himself time and time again, not only to be right, but to be sincere in his quest to find out what was right for me. So many people give advice that is based on what they would like you to do. His advice was never self-serving. As a matter of fact, he never gave his own opinion without praying on it first. He wanted to be sure that he was doing the right thing. I think God answered his sincerity with truth.

This morning at 3 a.m he passed away. He’d been having failing health in recent months. Because of the car troubles I’d been having recently, I didn’t see him as often as I would have liked, but we spoke often. I was very glad that he got to meet Punksin, although she will never truly understand his place in my life. He never got to see Pudding. I so wish he could have.

I know how much work and prayer he put out into the universe on my behalf, and on my family’s behalf, and I know there were hundreds of other people who sought his advice and help over the decades. I hope that now, he is reaping the rewards of being selfless, tireless, and good. In a world of scam artists and empty words, he was a good person who believed passionately in the power of God, and who showed that power in his own work.

We miss him. I will miss him. The name Emmanuel means “with us is God” and that was how we felt, that God’s angel was right here with us. Already we feel lost – to whom do we turn when we need grounding, when things seem a little off-kilter and need righting? Yes, we know we can pray to God ourselves – and we do. But it was reassuring to have answers and concrete solutions, and to get them from someone who had invested himself in doing not just Good Work, but Work For Good.

If life is a long journey, then I’ve lost my compass. I can make guesses about the direction I’m headed in, but I no longer have the certainty I used to have. The person I relied on to show me the way is gone, and now I’ve got to make it through the jungle on my own, taking my children with me, hoping that I do the right thing for myself and for them and my husband. The frightening part is not thinking about getting lost or misdirected – that’s bound to happen. The frightening part is that now, if I lose my way, there’s no one to point me in the right direction again, no one to say go left or go right. I have to rely wholly on my good sense now.

He did tell me that I had some of that, and like a good father I think he tried to get us to be more self-reliant and less dependent. He knew he wouldn’t be here forever – and that even if he were, we’d never reach our full capacities if we were always running to him with our problems.

And I didn’t. I tried to make my own sense of things, to take his teachings and his hopes for me and form some sort of Plan For Life out of them. The thing was, I was still working on that…

I guess now it’s sink or swim time. In recent months he was weary – that weariness that you see people get sometimes when they’re close to the end, a spiritual weariness that runs deeper than any mere physical fatigue can do. When you recognize that you know you’ve got someone who is close to leaving. I’ve seen it before, and although I didn’t see him myself recently, I recognized all the signs in the descriptions I heard from those who did. When I last talked to him, I heard it in his voice.

God bless you, Emmanuel. I wish I had been as good a daughter as you were a father. I thank you for taking the place of my biological father, giving me the guidance and putting in the work that he never did. I wish…I wish so many things. I wish I had appreciated you more. I wish I could have done more for you towards the end. I wish I had seen you more often, and I wish you had just once laid your eyes on Pudding.  Most of all, though, I wish you the peace and rest and light and love you deserve.  May God bless you a thousandfold.  Thank you. Thank you. Thank you.

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