Between sips of Folgers from their lipstick rimmed styrofoam cups, my grandmother and some of her sisters held court and gossiped mercilessly from their middle pew in the funeral home chapel.
One particularly tearful woman caught the worst of their whispered ire. This woman had not earned the right to mourn in such a showy capacity. That is the moment that I started adhering to a hierarchy of grief.
I don’t know if this is right or wrong. I’m sure that many would advise that you should grieve in whatever way you see fit and they very well may be right. However, I decided to never put myself in the crosshairs of the most formidable women I’ve ever known by gettin’ above my grievin’.
And, by making this one of my core values, is exactly how I got myself into one of the most mortifying situations of my entire life – sobbing to my new boss about a month into my employment about my estranged father’s death.
My father and I had not spoken in almost a decade when my sister called to tell me that the Grim Reaper that he had artfully dodged for years had finally caught up to him. For most of my life my anger towards him had burned hotter than a lightning flash. However, when my daughter was a toddler, he and I exchanged a series of letters.
During our stint as the world’s oddest pen pals, I forgave my father, learned about the past and hoped for a relationship outside of the written word. That relationship didn’t work out, but it was ok. I couldn’t have him in my life, but I had forgiven him. I was at peace with him and I felt that he was with me.
When he passed it was sad, but it was also weird. I wasn’t going to grieve for him the same way that my sister, who had always had a close relationship with our dad, was going to grieve for him. That would have been disrespectful and gross – and it most certainly wouldn’t have been approved of by the Conley sisters.
Therefore, I processed it. I talked to my husband. I talked to my best friends. I was good. I had grieved the proper amount for the level of our relationship. I did not do any “cryin’ or carryin’ on” because that would have been elevating myself to a tier of the hierarchy to which I did not belong.
My new boss, whom I had only told about my father’s death because I was unsure if I would need to take time off, reached out to see how I was doing. I was surprised that she called because she and I had not gotten off to a banner start. Not getting along with a boss was a new experience for me. It had thrown me for a loop and I certainly wasn’t going to let her into my personal life anymore than I had to. I had planned to assure her that I was fine and that I would not be taking any time off from work, maybe slide in a glib line or two and be off the phone with her as quickly as possible.
However, before I knew what was going on I was in a full-blown, M’Lynn-I-Can-Jog-All-The-Way-To-Texas-And-Back-But-My-Daughter-Can’t-She-Never-Could-Cry. It was an out-of-body experience. It was like being in a car that was spinning out of control. I was screaming expletive-laden commands to get a hold of myself. As the tears pooled in my cleavage, I became concerned that I had truly had a mental break because that was the only thing that would have made me have a conversation with this person, let alone a good ole fashioned ugly cry.
When all hope was gone that I was actually going to remember who the hell I was and get ahold of myself, I just hoped that my family would remember how much I loved them because a quick death was the only thing that was going to save me from this level of mortification. But, I was not so lucky, and I am now a living testament to the fact that you can’t actually die of embarrassment.
When I saw that I was going to live, my next plan of action was to move to a remote Alaskan fishing village that had no cell or wi-fi service so that I could put this terrible aspect of my past behind me and build a new life. However, she continued to reassure me that it was ok, she shared that she had some rough times and that she sometimes found it easier to talk to a “stranger”…of course, she meant a therapist and not her boss, but the sentiment was still kind.
It was a loving act that allowed me the space that I didn’t even know I needed. It also showed me that perhaps I was wrong about her and that I may need to own up to the fact that maybe, just maybe, I had been a bit of a jerk to her.
When my father died, I didn’t cry to my husband. I didn’t cry to my best friends. Nope, I cried to my boss, my boss who I’ve never met in person, my boss who I didn’t even really like that much at the time.
Grief is funny and sneaky. So are relationships.
She’s not my boss anymore (I just got moved to another team as had always been the plan…she didn’t fire me), but I know now that she is someone I would want in my corner. I was wrong about my grief, and I was wrong about her.
Sometimes cryin’ and carryin’ on is exactly what you need to do.
Soshally Awkward
Sosha Lewis is a writer whose work has been featured in The Washington Post, Huffington Post, MUTHA Magazine and The Charlotte Observer. She writes about her sometimes wild, sometimes hilarious, sometimes heartbreaking past filled with free-lunches, a grimy sports bar, a six foot tall Albino woman who tried to save her teenage soul, felonious, drug addicted parents, an imaginary friend named Blueberry and growing up nestled in the coal-dusted mountains of West Virginia.
Sosha, you just made me cry. I feel for you. My father died almost eight years ago, and though we had a good relationship it had not been made easy by my mother. I won’t go into it all…but when I cry, it’s not only for him but what might have been and the loss of so many years.
I couldn’t love this more! Sosha always takes me on an emotional journey with her writing. I feel her highs and lows with each word. Thank you Bob and Sherri for allowing her to write for you! Thanks Sosha for sharing your life with us!