I’ve wondered whether to write about the recent loss of my father-in-law, mostly because I want to be super-sensitive to my husband and his mom, because it’s their story and not mine. It seems inauthentic not to write about it, though, so, in the past week or so, I’ve started writing, and then stopped, then started again— more times than I’ve put on shoes. And still I’ve gotten nowhere. It’s tricky, writing about an important death. Words don’t flow. It’s hard to identify feelings, because they’re jumbled and dull.
When someone we love dies, everything fogs.
There’s nothing to say, really. Is there?
His death was a shock, and it happened quickly, though with that specific slow-motion that comes with death.
The simple thing that happened was his heart was tired. The un-simple thing that happened is so complicated that it would take a handful of medical professionals to get it right.
It has been a few weeks of strangeness. Flashes of sadness, the unexpected kind, when I remember that he is gone, and when I think about what this death means for us, his family, his grandchildren, the ones left to think about him.
Strangely, too, this seems like it has intensified the pain I carry for others. Being a principal, or any type of leader of people, means you carry the weight of a lot, lot, lot, lot of people. Staff, parents, colleagues, and students—we hear their stories, and because we are the type of people who do this, we lift the story and carry it with us, trying to lessen the burden for someone else.
Last summer, at a conference in Philadelphia, I met a principal friend for coffee. As we talked, our conversation drifted beyond the management and instructional parts of our work, seeping into the heavy feeling of having people count on us. On his staff, he had, he guessed, right then, at that moment, more than ten different people who were in some deep, deep shit. He pulled out his napkin and started to note specific worries he had for members of his staff. An ill parent. A spouse struggling with addiction and anger. An adolescent child who cannot seem to find his way. Foreclosure and bankruptcy from a family business gone wrong. Social and emotional upheaval. A mentally disabled sibling, undergoing treatment for illnesses he can’t even understand he has.
Wow. Right? Just… so much.
There’s no real formula on how to help, either. People react in all kinds of ways when their lives hurl into crisis mode: Some tell their friends and colleagues, others carry it privately and alone. Both are fine, but we can’t predict a person’s reaction to a particular situation—and, thus, we can’t plan how we, ourselves, should respond. No. Instead, we just need to honor each person, honor each journey, and, if we can, help carry the burden.
And of course, we have to care of ourselves so we can help. It’s so hard to do. I certainly haven’t got it figured out. I really wish I had a neat, clean, concise bulleted list of suggestions, but I have no such thing. Instead, I try to just be extra forgiving of myself. I keep exercising. I eat right, but don’t get too mad at myself when I get lost in handfuls of MnM’s and pretzles (yes, together). I try not to worry about the insomnia that robs my sleep night after bloody night. When I feel the snark and judgment of others, as comes with a job like mine, I try to ride it out and release it into the universe. It’s okay, I remind myself. You’re carrying a lot.
That’s what we do. Carry all we can, and recognize when it’s getting heavier, heavier, too heavy.
And love to my dear father-in-law—a man with whom I shared a unique and sweet fondness. Rest in peace, Fred. xo
And love to my dear father-in-law—a man with whom I shared a unique and sweet fondness. Rest in peace, Fred. xo
