Dying Knots
When my father-in-law died unexpectedly on January 6, 2012 (the Epiphany), we were heartbroken. His death was in many ways similar to Edmond’s, sudden and unexpected while he was cooking us a stew on his stovetop. Both were healthy men with a clean bill of heath from their recent medical check-ups. The two also shared a name. My father-in-law, Edmond Sidney Moreland Sr. (Capt. Ed or Papa) was first an Air Force pilot and then commercial pilot. My husband and his father both loved flying, cooking, and traveling. They were quite a pair. If you closed your eyes, and listened to them, sometimes it was hard to tell who was the father and who was the son. They were best friends.
Ed was 65 years old and recently retired. He moved about a mile or so up the road from us to be near his grandchildren and children. He was a joy, a hilarious man of many talents, stories, and schemes. He loved to shop estate sales. I used to complement his shoes or shirt, and he would tell me he bought them from a dead guy.
When Ed died, we had children ages 16, 12, 9, 18 months, and I was seven month’s pregnant with Elaine (Ellie). We had a lot going on. His death stopped us in our tracks. Edmond would wake up in the middle of the night in the depths of grief and longing, and I would be awake with him. It was the biggest loss and heartache my husband had ever felt.
I was not yet doing this work professionally, and still had a lot of conditioning to overcome. I was protective of my family and most of all this child growing inside of me. I went into some supercharged caregiving mode. It was not balanced or healthy. I do not recommend it.
Most of what I learn, I learn the hard way. I can usually can tell you what not to do because I have done it.
At 39, I knew this would be my last pregnancy. I was terrified to grieve the death of my father-in-law. I had this fear that if I cried as hard as I knew I needed to cry that I would lose our baby girl. The urge to let go in tears felt like letting go in labor.
Honestly, having done both more than a few times, grief and child labor are not that different. There is the building of the waves and the contractions of anticipation, pain, sorrow, anguish, and relief. They come when they come, and there is no getting there faster or slower. And, there are many births that come out of these deaths we experience physically, emotionally, and psychically.
After Elaine was born, several additional losses over the next two years compounded what was already hurting me deeply. The emotional and physical weight of the grief began to take a toll on my body. I even got to ride in a fancy ambulance with lights and sirens on top when I collapsed one morning. After a full work up, the nurse patted me on the back and sent me home with a prescription for valium. I was pissed, and I knew it was time to do my own grief work. Because I was the primary caregiver of three teenagers and two toddlers, my husband helped create space for me to properly grieve what was too heavy upon my heart. This moment took us another layer deeper into our partnership. Both Edmond and I are highly capable, sure footed, first born children who have high expectations of ourselves. So, for us, learning the dance of interdependence took a lot of practice. Together, we learned that in grief, there are no shortcuts. I go vulnerable much faster these days. Falling apart is strong. Holding it together is totally overrated and only puts off what is inevitable.
One of the other things to know about my father-in-law is that he had artifacts and friends from all over the world. While he claimed to be a pilot, I often accused him (post-mortem) of being a pirate for the sheer bounty of shiny objects that seemed to be stashed in every corner and crevasse of his home. I would find some box or mask or strange kitchen utensil and have to ask Edmond, what the hell? He would tell me what the hell, and usually a really good story, too.
One of the ways we grieved Ed was through the ritual of objects. Being able to touch something he bought or used or was gifted opened a portal into Ed’s existence. It was a way to see him in the present moment through story and artifact. I encourage clients to work with grief in this way, finding meaning in memory.
One of the items that made its way into our garage was a hammock. A few years ago, when it surfaced again, I asked my husband about it. He recounted that it belonged to a friend of his fathers. The man who gave it to Ed was dying of cancer, and had been ill for a long time. He had made the hammock when he could not do much else. He hand-tied each knot to form the netting.
I hung the hammock up in the trees where we live. Several of the rope threads were frayed or broken. In its current state, it was not really ready for anyone to relax in it.
I do not know much else about this dying man who tied knots to make a hammock. I imagine, though, that perhaps as he tied each knot he let something go. His dying knots released grudges, pain, regrets, and unresolved conflicts. Knots are tied up in memories of births and celebrations, and the joyful moments from life that carry us through the hard times. This hammock of dying knots is like a rosary net of prayers and wishes to catch what happens next.
This man knew he was dying and somehow finished the hammock before he died. Edmond died suddenly, shockingly in his prime and despite his doctor’s accolades regarding his good health and superb physical condition. He did not tie dying knots.
I look around our home and land for Edmond. I look for artifacts, evidence of his existence. Without an inkling of how short his time here would be, he tied living knots in the hand-made objects he birthed into existence: the first garden he built with one-month-old William next to him in the stroller, the perfectly level deck outside of his shop, the large round stone fire pit, the fix on the iron bed so it wouldn’t wobble, the latch on the front door that doesn’t stick anymore, his promises kept, and his tears of joy when something touched him deeply. Often, he wrapped me in a living knot holding me tight longer than I could keep my footing. Just as I would begin to lose my balance, he would pull me closer and whisper, “I will not let you fall.” And he never did.