DEALING WITH LOSS

Screams of agony surrounded my home that morning. My sister rushed into the living room where my mom lay on the ground with his body in her arms. She cried out for someone to call the ambulance, but it was too late.

Strangers held my hand and walked me into the funeral home, the last place I wanted to be at. They expressed their sympathy and tried to comfort me, but the only embrace I was searching for was lying lifeless in a blue-colored coffin across the room. Resentment for my mom grew after that day for making me go. I wanted to remember my dad alive and well … not dead.

His death was sudden. He passed from a stroke in his sleep. Flashbacks to that day happen when I think about him. It’s like I’m at that scene again. His skin was ice cold. He was gone for a while then, while we had been asleep in the next room.

Doctors suggested I go into therapy because I never grieved for my dad. Appointments filled my days, but I never attended. What I felt wasn’t “curable.” I wasn’t depressed. I took it upon myself to move on and not think about his death. I knew he was gone, but a part of me still waited for him to walk through the door at 7 o’clock after work.

I waited for the person that gave me piggy-back rides even when he was at his worst. He used every opportunity to teach me something new. I followed him everywhere, sometimes I even faked being ill just to hang out with him. He’d take me to his work and teach me about the different tools and their functions, but honestly I never really listened. I just wanted to hear his excitement about something he loved to do.

He was my best friend. He was perfect in my eyes and that is why I was in shock for what seemed like forever. Until someone triggered it last year.

I attended a League of United Latin American Citizens convention at La Paz, where Cesar Chavez’s son, Paul, spoke to us about his father and how even though the world saw him as a hero, he was still dad to him. He spoke about his father with such admiration and love, I felt every word. Paul looked around the room and paused as soon as he saw me. Both of our eyes filled with tears, I felt his loss and he felt mine.

I walked head down past the exit and made my way through the open doors where the mountains stretched and I can only see the clear sky. I cried like I’ve never cried before because he’ll never have the chance to walk me down the aisle nor hug me when I graduate. He won’t be in the crowd cheering me on. I didn’t understand how there were still tears rolling down my cheeks. I cried until I was tired of crying.

I thought about questioning God, “Why me? Why my dad?” But I understood that if he were still alive, he would be paralyzed from the neck down. That alone would be devastating for everyone.

To this day, I can’t talk about my dad without crying because no matter how many years have passed, it never stops hurting. I miss him everyday. But I can feel his presence at times, reminding me to keep going and thrive because I have big shoes to fill as a role model to my younger siblings. I want what every daughter or son wants, to make their parents proud.

Sobbing and mourning — this is what allows us to let go of pain so we can heal. Repressed feelings of grief don’t just disappear. Repressing them is unhealthy. After holding in pain for so long and finally being able express my sorrow, I’ve allowed myself to love and be loved, even though sometimes I’m still hesitant. Grief allows us to experience the loss and tests our strength. I’ve learned that it’s okay to relieve the pressures from inside. It’s not a sign of weakness, it proves that the love we felt was real.

Baylin’s story

Funerals are for the living.
Loved ones come and loved ones go, but in the end everything will continue because the world does not pause for any single person.

These principles have helped me stay strong through difficult times.

Understanding has allowed the acceptance process to come almost immediately after finding out a loved one has passed away.
My biological mother died when I was 11 years old, and I was fine.

It was the first time in years our entire family had actually gathered and that made me happy in what should’ve been an unfortunate event. It’s been seven years and I’m still fine.

I know she’s gone and I’ll never see her, hug her, or even say goodbye, but that was practically the situation already considering I had been living with my adoptive mom starting at age 4.

Don’t get me wrong, I’m not bitter toward her nor have I ever been, but it’s hard to cry over the loss of someone you hardly knew.
Some people after a death go into shock, and my adoptive mother thought that perhaps I was in disbelief. That has never been the case.
Unlike the situation with my mother, I was very close to the man whom I saw as a father figure.

He had also come into my life at age 4 and we almost instantly got along.

Even in his late 30’s to early 40’s he had the humor of a child and because of that we had a bond that could not be cut by the strongest pair of scissors or scratched by the sharpest knife.

In fact, because I never knew my biological father, I have always felt that this man is my father.
Feb. 7, the only man I had to depend on died and yet I still felt fine. There were no tears shed, no anger, no pain.
My life has continued on as if nothing has happened. I felt inhuman for feeling the way I did.

Shouldn’t there be some sort of emotion to the news of losing your father?
I then realized that I have always felt the need to be there for others. When my birth mom died, I knew my adoptive mom, sister, and everyone else would need someone to lean on. That was me.

I knew when my father died, my adoptive mom would need me, and so I accepted the loss and dealt with the living.
Growing up has been tough and there have been many things that had to be dealt with so it wasn’t anything new to me.
I was able to adapt and I was able to see that the dead were gone, but the living remained and suffered over the loss and it became my job to comfort and care for those that needed the support.

Life has gotten easier over time but there are always those bumps along the way that try to slow me down so that’s when I remind myself that life doesn’t pause for anyone.

There are many nights when my adoptive mom is under the false impression that my ears are safe from the sounds of a broken woman weeping softly, or of her sleepless empty nights.

There is so much that I wish I could do to help and in the end there is very little that we can do.
While I sympathize with her methods, I know personally that crying doesn’t bring back the dead.

Being in pain, falling into depression, or giving up is not how a person should give their respects to the deceased. Rather they would want that person to thrive, work hard, and flourish into something great.

The loved ones I have lost and will lose will be acknowledged not by me becoming weak, but instead by me using that loss for strength in pursuing happiness.

My life will become an epic journey of the world’s wonders for everyone who cannot experience them.