Any time I hear that someone I know has "had a baby," I can't help but think, "Oh, but there's so much more to it than that!" While those few little words sum up the result with a concise and impersonal precision, they do nothing to describe the event's genuine reality, individuality, or magnitude. Yes, this person may have given birth, but what is the
real story? What was it
actually like? How long did it take, and how did she handle the emotions, and pain, and trauma, and beauty of the whole affair? How does it actually
feel to have this new little person to hold and cherish and love forever?
Somehow, the words we use to describe the event, while completely accurate, do no justice whatsoever to the significance of the experience itself; neither the before nor the after.
In a bizarre way, losing someone can be much the same. To hear that someone "has died," though the words are, again, absolutely true, is to say nothing about what the experience really means to the people it affects. It is to attempt to say, in almost no words at all, not only that one life on this earth has ended, but that all of the lives left in its wake have been completely transformed forever.
The words may convey fact, but they do nothing to express the breadth of emotion lurking insidiously behind that stark, glaring, unwieldy truth.
On August 12th of this year, after a little less than 62 years of life, my father-in-law, Dennis Monson, died. He is survived by one wife, one son, one daughter-in-law, four grandchildren, four siblings, and two parents.
Those are the numbers; they are the facts.
They are true. But they do not say enough.
They do not say what a kind and gentle man he was. They do not say what an adoring, devoted husband he was, or how proud he was of his only son, how enamored he was of his grandchildren, and how endlessly kind he was to his daughter-in-law. They say nothing about what a dedicated older brother, loyal son, and devoted friend and employee he was. They do nothing to describe the generous spirit that filled his body, his desire to be helpful to anyone and everyone he knew, and to many he didn't know, or how he never had an unpleasant thing to say about anyone he met.
They do not, and cannot, explain the pain, discomfort, and difficulty of a brave, nine-year, ultimately losing battle against Parkinson's disease; how he was tragically deprived of so many healthy years and delightful memories, how his grandchildren have been dispossessed of the unique love and attachment of their grandfather, his son of the affection and esteem of his father, and his wife of the attentiveness and adoration of her one true love.
They say that he left. But they do not begin to describe the void that remains.
Death is a natural part of the life cycle; a necessary part of the mortal experience. I know this.
But that does not mean that it is not hard, and tragic, and heart-breaking when someone you know and love dies. It does not mean that we will move on without months and years of sadness and grief. It does not mean that our hearts won't desperately try to hold within themselves the very essence of the person who has moved on without us, the magic of their memory, the reverence for their beautiful existence. It does not mean that we won't miss them every day.
Because, oh, how we love and miss you, Dad.
You better believe we are going to hug you forever when we see you again.
