Thanks doesn't quite cover it

My apologies for blowing up your feeds with thoughts about Dave's passing, but I feel compelled to put my thoughts to 'paper'. 

I arrived home after the service was wrapped up, the last hugs given, the sympathy messages exchanged, the flowers and leftover nibbles dolled out. Once back in the beach, I quickly shed my monkey suit (I am NOT a fan of dress clothes any more), then Joyce and I crashed on the couch feeling physically spent, mentally frayed, and emotionally exhausted. We grazed our way through a shut-in evening thanks to the aforementioned sami's 'n nibbles, distracting our attention with some Netflix. The pillow's siren call meant we were horizontal and snoring somewhat early.

I awoke my normal early and settled into the couch with a coffee, only to discover a FB message from a friend with the following:

You Don’t Just Lose Someone Once.

You lose them over and over,

sometimes many times a day.

When the loss, momentarily forgotten,

creeps up,

and attacks you from behind.

Fresh waves of grief as the realisation hits home,

they are gone.

Again.

You don’t just lose someone once,

you lose them every time you open your eyes to a new dawn,

and as you awaken,

so does your memory,

so does the jolting bolt of lightning that rips into your heart,

they are gone.

Again.

Losing someone is a journey,

not a one-off.

There is no end to the loss,

there is only a learned skill on how to stay afloat,

when it washes over.

Be kind to those who are sailing this stormy sea,

they have a journey ahead of them,

and a daily shock to the system each time they realise,

they are gone,

Again.

You don’t just lose someone once,

you lose them every day,

for a lifetime.

By Donna Ashworth (CLICK)

The words resonated with me to the extent that I felt compelled to send them privately to my sister-in-law, hoping and praying that their power would embrace her shattered psyche like it did mine. To me, it explains why the grief ebbs and swells, sometimes leaving you feeling in control, sometimes tears streaming down your cheeks. The 'forever and ever' becomes the ordeal for she and my nieces will need to face as they cope with an empty chair at the dinner table as a daily reminder that life has changed irrevocably.

My mind is aswirl with thoughts right now.

Grief is a blade sharper than the finest Samurai sword. Sparing your physical self, it cuts your soul with each reminder or thought of your dearly departed, and each time you lose them again. It's commonly held that grief is wholly personal, each of us navigating the foggy pathway in a manner that is totally of our choosing. For me, I transitioned from anger to despondence to sadness to appreciation to joy as literally hundreds of my friends, my brother's friends, family friends, and Dave's friends offered their condolences and hugs, searching the stifling awkwardness for the words to express their own internal struggle. Hitting like a sledgehammer, I begrudgingly accept my membership card to the I-lost-a-sibling club, an affiliation filled with why him's, what now's, and who to turn to's as our family helps pick up the pieces of his family's shattered life.

My personal thank you's ... Where do I begin? 

Of course, the largest, purest, most sincere of thanks goes to Cheryl and the kids for finding the strength to endure the entire celebration process with its condolences, hugs, hand shakes, sombreness, tears, and realities. There's nothing that we can say or do that will spare you from the pain, but know that we will be one step behind you to catch you if you falter.

To my mother for her strength while shouldering the horrible reality of outliving a child. Sure, she had times when the tears came unchecked, but she had the courage to accept the hugs and hands of those she greeted, engaged, and thanked. It takes a tragedy to truly see just how blessed we boys were to have parents like mom and dad. I can't adequately express the level of gratitude and love I have for her ... but I'd wager she knows ... mothers always seem to know.

To my brothers Rob and Mike, your willingness to put all else to the back burner in efforts to assist wherever and whenever it was needed, all while processing your own grief. We may not verbalize our love to each other like some families, but we know its magnitude from the twinkle of the eyes, the brilliance of the smile, or the warmth of the embrace. We have a gargantuan responsibility over the next little while and we'll need to lean on each other to make through.

To my wife for being the shining example of a soulmate, complete with hugs, kisses, and the perfect thing to say when necessary. I love you more that I ever could adequately express, but I think you already know that.

To the hundreds of people that felt compelled to come to a visitation, the service, or both, be they friends of Dave's, of Cheryl's, of Teresa's or Derk's, of mom's, of mine, of Rob's, of Mike's ... there are really no words that adequately express the volume of gratitude we all feel for so many offering support in our journey through grief. I was flattered by the number of folks who felt our relationship was deep enough to offer sympathy to me personally ... former teachers, former colleagues, longtime friends, former students ... y'all really know how to make a guy feel special!

To the staff of Steckley-Gooderham Funeral Home, especially to Tim, a former student from my Maple Grove days who expertly navigated the affair to find a time to share his own personal well wishes after connecting the dots to realize it was my brother who we were there to celebrate.

To the officiant Colin MacDonald who's obvious skills were only surpassed by his overt humanness, guiding us through the fog like the brightest lighthouse. I sought him out at the reception following the service to offer personal thanks and express my wonderment at the way he captured the essence of Dave in such a short time. His humble deflection included, "It's my duty" and "Experience blesses me with insight" before a simple smile and a firm shake of my hand.

The last thank you goes to you, the reader. 

I'll state it again, lest there be misunderstandings, but the authoring process I employ grants me a peace that I didn't know existed, and I can literally feel the positives attacking the negatives, the light banishing the dark, with each revision, addition, or deletion. In addition, I'll be looking to my two-wheeled stallion to offer me its comfort over the next few days. I can always count on the contemplations of a ride to help the healing.

Yep, thanks just doesn't quite cover it, but I'll offer it to you all anyway. 

My most sincere thanks.