Into That Good Night

Chuck Pahlinik once said “Only in death will we have our own names since only in death are we no longer part of the effort. In death we become heroes.”

That quote sums up everything I'm experiencing with the loss of my husband's father. When he died, my immediate reaction was not pain for his loss, but pain for what Chris was feeling. I loved my father-in-law very, very much. It was impossible not to. He was always happy and outgoing and loved seeing us. Even when times were tough and he didn't have much, he was always smiling through it so that we would never worry. When most people would use their misfortune as a soundboard for complaints, he never did. I'm struggling with the fact that he may have been unhappy and that we should have done more. I'm also struggling to remind myself that he may have been happy all along and our doubts are unnecessary. The greatest struggle of all is why I only thought to care about this notion until now, when unfortunately he's gone.

A week ago we could have called him. We could have seen him and asked if he needed anything. A week ago we could have seen him at all. Instead, we assumed he was there. We assumed he was fine and that just being a phone call away was enough. We didn't think about all the amazing memories that made him a wonderful father because there was no need to; they were as prevelent in our life as a glass jar of coins that could be filled at leisure. Accepting that we will never be able to fill that jar again is the most heartbreaking part of all. Every coin has increased in value, but now the jar is sealed... and it's unbearable.

That's why in death, he's become a hero. All the memories of the good times are so much more brilliant. They shine brighter than they ever have. Some stories I was never even around for but have heard about a thousand times are just... better. His love for his children, to me, makes more sense.

The convenience of his existance was taken for granted; that we are guilty of. That guilt makes the pain harder, but it doesn't make his life less valid. No one was wrong for not being the last person he talked to. No one was wrong for assuming he would always be there. No one was wrong for loving him without seeing him. All that matters is that we loved him. What's the difference if we recognize it more now that he's gone?

The love we had for him has never changed, it was just less recognized while he was here. Sure that sounds unfair and even invokes extreme guilt that this outpouring of love wasn't felt while he was here, but the amount has never changed. It's strange to feel as though we love him more now that he's gone, but we don't. We love him just the same as we did, but death just makes us feel as though we never did enough.

I don't know what is going to happen in the next few days, weeks, and years of being without him, but I think Chris' father's memory will live stronger the longer he is gone. As we grow old together, Chris and I will understand better how life can treat us and therefore better understand how his father saw the world. I'm not looking forward to the wake, or the funeral, or the pain in Chris' eyes that may creep in unexpectedly when he thinks about his dad. I am, however, looking forward to the newly found knowledge that I have that teaches me that memories cannot be relied on like coins in a jar. Every coin we do have should be taken out sometimes to be polished and renewed.

And no matter how much time and love we have for someone, they'll never mean more to us than when they are gone. They'll never be more of a hero to us than when we wish they were here and can't.