where does your grief go

 How do you deal with your grief?

You cry

You call your people

You think about who that person was, the person you grieve

You hold it in

You let it out

You write it down 

The stories. The memories. The things that matter. The things you wish you said and done when they were still here.

I think that's what most people do.

That’s what I did when I learned about Dave. We were driving. I got a message. I told my husband. I cried. Later, we called the kids. I contacted some friends. I tried to write something. Then I sat with my husband in our living room drinking endless cups of coffee, sharing our memories, reading through the dozens of plays we wrote together- words on a page that bring him back to us. And we laughed. I forgot how funny the three of us found ourselves.

For a moment, Dave was with us in that room, just like the old days, drinking those endless cups of coffee, telling stories, adding funny bits to the script, getting wrangled back into line by me, and laughing. It was like our memories had the power to bring him back to us.

I deal with my grief by remembering Dave. Who was he, really?

People will tell you he was funny, maybe the funniest guy they ever met. With his encyclopedic memory for jokes and one liners, his mellifluous voice and his expert timing, no one delivered a joke or told a story quite like Dave.

People will tell you he was smart, maybe the smartest guy they ever met. When Dave turned 50, Gail had pencils made up for him that said “polymath’ because he knew so much about so many things. Science. Nature. Music. Warfare. History.  Obscure references to weird things-movies, books, TV shows. Things you knew nothing about.

He was an independent guy. He didn’t like to plan. He didn’t like to ask for help. He liked to think of himself as a handyman. He talked about building his garage and coming up with projects just as an excuse to buy new tools. I'm just gonna leave that there.

Sometimes he talked tough about himself as a teacher, but tough was the opposite of who he was. He had a soft heart and an endless capacity for second chances. He was a conflict avoider and a peacemaker.  He was generous with his time except when he really didn’t want to do something and then he just wouldn't.

He played things close to the vest and it was hard to know what was in his deepest thoughts. Gail called me shortly after they were married and she said, “You and Len know more about what goes on in his head than I do,” to which I replied, “I don't think so, Gail. No one knows what goes on in Dave’s head.”

Our kids at Dave and Gail's wedding

When Dave and Gail got together, it was a miracle. There in a town as small as Slave Lake, these two unique people found each other. Gail with her big heart and strong political views and quirky fashion sense and inappropriate remarks. Dave with his big heart and no political views and no fashion sense and inappropropriate jokes. Maybe it wasn't a miracle. Maybe it was inevitable. Dan says Gail saved Dave's life and in a way, she did. He had a darkness in him, and the darkness abated when she came in. It came back when she left.

After he and Gail got married, their home came alive. It was like the loving home they made together needed to be shared with everyone. Whist parties, Family Day cookie parties with foosball in the basement, NDP organizing meetings. A place where all were welcome, including the strays Gail brought home from the gym and the couples she tried to set up. 

Gail at a Christmas Party

I don’t know what the stages of grief looked like for Dave as he mourned the loss of Gail.

When we visited, he didn’t say what was in his heart. He didn’t need to. It was there in the dying plants and the unopened mail and the empty shell their once vibrant home had become. His grief lay heavy. I know friends and family rallied around. His family and his friends and his community were there on every step of his journey back to the light. Each time we saw Dave, we saw progress out of that emptiness.

Grief is why I write this. 

Grief is why I share this. 

Grief is why we drive 9 hours in the winter cold to be with our friends as we pay tribute to Dave.

Because although grief is intensely personal and private, it’s also shared.

Len and Dave in "The Nerd"

No one knows what lies in wait for us on the other side. Maybe- as Dave and Gail believed and I fervently hope- there is an afterlife. Or perhaps there’s a parallel universe of infinite possibilities. In that other place, here’s what I imagine:

A dark and intimate theatre. 

Everyone you know and love is there. There’s Bill and Ellen. Neil and Sue. Sean and Kim. Jean and Roy. The Lehmans. The Schuellers. The Symington brothers and their families. Dorothy and Roald and all the Ungstads. There’s Bruce and Kelly. Dan and Caroline. Joe and Connie. The Allans. The Tanasiuks. Like, ALL the Tanasiuks. And all the others. You'll be there too, you know who you are.

Everyone is waiting. 

They’re waiting for Dave.

And there he is. Up on the stage, illuminated by the overhead lights he installed himself. Probably just minutes before the show.

He’s telling one of his million stories about the seven Symington brothers. 

His voice is warm. He pauses in all the right places as he waits for his audience to join him in the world he recreates for us.. We follow him into his chaotic house, trooping after his brothers as they steal the flag or shoot the arrow. We follow him as his harried mom gets the call about the flag, as his dad snaps the arrow in half. The room comes alive with his stories. Everyone smiles. Then they laugh. Slow at first and building. 

One laugh is louder than all the others. It’s Gail. Her laugh so loud and infectious, it fills the room.  

That’s what I picture. Dave and Gail together again. Everyone where they belong. A community. Conjured up through the power of memory and spirit, Dave and Gail live.

That’s how I deal with my grief.

Photo courtesy Joe McWilliams