While I would give anything to have my late husband back, my life is more vibrant, more meaningful, more miraculous thanks to the lessons of grief and loss.
We've never met, but a group of us who went to policy school at Duke with Mike met last night. We were sad he was not amongst us. I have fond memories of working with Mike on policy projects and petting his dog Molly. One of our number found your substack site and emailed us the link. After reading your beautiful remembrance of Mike, and how you have honored his memory in your life since, I remembered my Dad who also died suddenly. And this came pouring out.
Grief can be like a cat. Sometimes, lion-sized, it roars; other times it mews piteously. Maybe, because there are so many things you, the survivor, have to do, you try to put it in a cage to be dealt with at a more convenient time. But, like Sandburg’s fog, it escapes; on silent little cat feet it follows you. And, when you least expect, it pounces, piercing your soul with kitten-sharp claws.
Today was one of those kitten claw days.
There is a children’s book about going on a bear hunt. One of the lines goes something like: can’t go over it, can’t go under it, can’t go around it, you have to go through it. Grief is both universal and individual. And it bites.
My hope for you is that when a family member passes, you have no unfinished business with them. My dad and I didn’t always see eye to eye. But I was able to forgive and understand, an outcome I know may not be possible for everyone.
Dad would have been sad that his Cleveland Browns (my old team) were absolutely crushed by the Washington Commanders, my current team (when I got married, we adopted each other’s sports teams. I got the now Commanders; husband got Duke basketball. I still think he got the better end of that deal.) But dad would have been happy for me that my team won. And, dear God, I miss him.
To the Deagles, we are glad to have known your husband and dad and know the world is a poorer place without him. We are sorry for your loss.
Thank you, Nick, for posting such a wonderful remembrance of Mike. And to each of us who gathered last night, in Mike’s memory, and the memory of anyone in your lives lost too soon: remember that we studied public policy so we could make the world a better place. In our daily lives, in our jobs, and with our families, remember that we still have the power to do so.
Hi Sue,
We've never met, but a group of us who went to policy school at Duke with Mike met last night. We were sad he was not amongst us. I have fond memories of working with Mike on policy projects and petting his dog Molly. One of our number found your substack site and emailed us the link. After reading your beautiful remembrance of Mike, and how you have honored his memory in your life since, I remembered my Dad who also died suddenly. And this came pouring out.
Grief can be like a cat. Sometimes, lion-sized, it roars; other times it mews piteously. Maybe, because there are so many things you, the survivor, have to do, you try to put it in a cage to be dealt with at a more convenient time. But, like Sandburg’s fog, it escapes; on silent little cat feet it follows you. And, when you least expect, it pounces, piercing your soul with kitten-sharp claws.
Today was one of those kitten claw days.
There is a children’s book about going on a bear hunt. One of the lines goes something like: can’t go over it, can’t go under it, can’t go around it, you have to go through it. Grief is both universal and individual. And it bites.
My hope for you is that when a family member passes, you have no unfinished business with them. My dad and I didn’t always see eye to eye. But I was able to forgive and understand, an outcome I know may not be possible for everyone.
Dad would have been sad that his Cleveland Browns (my old team) were absolutely crushed by the Washington Commanders, my current team (when I got married, we adopted each other’s sports teams. I got the now Commanders; husband got Duke basketball. I still think he got the better end of that deal.) But dad would have been happy for me that my team won. And, dear God, I miss him.
To the Deagles, we are glad to have known your husband and dad and know the world is a poorer place without him. We are sorry for your loss.
Thank you, Nick, for posting such a wonderful remembrance of Mike. And to each of us who gathered last night, in Mike’s memory, and the memory of anyone in your lives lost too soon: remember that we studied public policy so we could make the world a better place. In our daily lives, in our jobs, and with our families, remember that we still have the power to do so.
Hugs to you all.
Erica