Metallic Food, Killing Rats, and Bad Art Teachers: A Grief Story

I'm getting better at grieving...

If that's a thing. A trait to be desired? I don't know. Is it better to be a bubbling, snotty, mess, or the person who compartmentalizes things and then hears Radiohead on the way home and nearly has to pull over and cry? I don't know.

I just know what to expect. I know I'll laugh again, and cry again, and be hit with weird moments of everything in between, because this isn't new. I've done this before. Death has been conquered before, and I'll get past this, too. But grief is odd...

Losing my grandma was the third death in less than a month. They say death comes in three's, and I didn't want it to be true. I lost my dog of 15 years on the last day of 2019, and then two days later my daughter's hamster died just moments before we left for a mini-trip to the coast.  Hamsters don't count, I know.  They're rodents. But looking at my daughter when she discovered that her hamster died, I knew right then that it counted. Pain in the eyes of your children, counts. I dug another, much shallower grave in the backyard. Then we said a prayer, and got in the car to go on vacation. Yippee!

I told myself that we were done with death because there was a third death. Kind of. My other dog, Gatsby, did not like us burying his brother Indiana; he sniffed the box, he nudged the carcass of his brother, and then when we lowered the dog into the ground, Gatsby barked at us and jump-lunged at us inside the netting of our enclosed trampoline (yes, our dog jumps up and inside the trampoline enclosure and hangs out there; he's weird). The netting propelled him backward, almost violently. It was odd. He jumped at us in anger, and barked at us in anger. Something he'd never done. He then went to the tamped-down dirt and sniffed, whined, and looked up at us. Why? Grief is weird.

Goodbye, Ole' Indiana, you were a good pup.

Gatsby, a day later, established himself as head-of-house dog. He caught a rat. We don't have a rat problem. I've never seen one, never heard one, never had any food ripped open, no droppings. We don't have rats. But when I heard Gatsby violently shaking something in the hallway, I had to go check it out. He violently rips apart every toy we give him. But he does it right in front of us, as if we should be proud. He pulls the fluff out and sets the precious polyester in our lap. He goes after the squeaker like that cult leader from Temple of Doom goes after beating hearts.  "Good dog," he expects. We don't say that...our response is more like, "Gatsby...we just got you that! Bad!" So when I heard the commotion in the hall I was curious. When I got to the hallway, I was really mad. He got the other daughter's hamster! (technically, this was before the first hamster death). On the ground was my daughter's hamster, tail bloody, clearly damaged from the violent shaking that Gatsby had inflicted.

"Nadia! quick, get in here...Gatsby got your hamster!" I yelled as I held back Gatsby from finishing off the poor hamster.

Nadia runs into the hall. "Dad, that's not my hamster."

My wife right behind her, voice trembling, "Yeah, Chris, that's not her hamster! Hamster's don't have tails. That's a rat!"

Still disbelieving (I'm such a Thomas), I looked into my daughter's room and saw her dark-brown "rat-looking" hamster sleeping comfortably.

I agree on the star rating.  

What the hell. A rat? In my house? I ran to get the girl's pink BB gun. I shot the bastard. Nobody grieved for the tail-tattered, BB riddled carcass of the rat. I did what men do. We eliminate problems. I had to clean the blood off the floor and dispose of the rat. In the trashcan, because this was not a family pet. Rodents don't count.

So the next day when Lily's hamster died, I later thought...oh yeah, my dog, the rat, and the hamster...that's three. Obviously one hurt badly, one hurt a little, and one not at all...and we survived.

But rodents don't count.

Instead, the third will be the toughest of them all. Grandma.

This was not totally unexpected. She was 96. We lost Grandpa Bill less than two years ago. The family thought maybe they'd both make it to 100 as they were both spritely and healthy.  Bill was a Pearl Harbor survivor. How cool would it be to have 100-year-old Pearl Harbor surviving couple. They'd probably make the national news. (As if anyone watches NBC nightly news anymore).  I know that's selfish and stupid, but it also made me proud of who they were. Survivors.

My grandparents 70th anniversary

If I was a normal person, I'd probably use this paragraph to describe the unbelievable character of Pat Sharrar, my grandma. A devout Catholic, person of high moral character, and mother to seven kids.  She was a special person. I didn't know her very well. I knew her, but, she was guarded in that WWII generation way. She didn't reveal a ton about herself. She made the best wheat bread I've ever tasted, could play a nasty round of Speed (cards) or Scrabble...but I didn't really know her.  I loved her, yes, but there was something I never unravelled about her. My aunts and uncle obviously knew her deeper. As did many of my cousins. My sister said, "She was so much more dimensional that she comes across," and while I knew that about her, I never got to see it.

In a way, I'm jealous of the deep bond many of my cousins and siblings shared with Pat. But, then again, everybody bonds differently with different people. I know she loved me, and she knew I loved her, and even if we didn't have some "otherworldly" connection that some grandkids and grandparents have, I'm not bitter or guilt-riddled. Death is no time for a pity party.

Instead, as the long, boring ride home on the worst stretch of I-5, after seeing her the night before she passed (her spirit already gone) but now knowing she was gone, I tried to grieve. Or rather, grief tried to find me. Stupid Radiohead songs. Radiohead was one of those bands that saturated my one major depression. I love Radiohead, but their ethereal sounds can put me in a bad place if I allow them.  People don't realize the power of music. Music, probably more than any other art, is a doorway to emotions...

Anyway, while the beginning of grief boiled to the surface, something odd happened. I remembered my 7th grade teacher Mr. Wood.

Mr. Wood was an Art teacher at a school in Northern Washington.  He taught middle school for half the day and then drove to the high school to teach in the afternoon. My brother, a sophomore when I was a 7th grader, also had Mr. Wood.

Mr. Wood lost his father and his dog in the same year.

I'm not sure if these events led to Mr. Wood being an ineffective art teacher, but Mr. Woods could not control a classroom. And the cruelty of our generation gave no compassion to Mr. Wood. They thrived on his pain. They besieged Mr. Wood with insults and taunts, and when Mr. Wood would assign a new project, some kid would blurt out, "How's your dad, Mr. Wood?"

Mr. Wood would then slink away, into his office, and cry. 

We (and I say "We" because I never stopped this torment...I sometimes laughed, and enjoyed the freedom of never having to turn in assignments or care about my projects in art class) were purposely cruel to Mr. Wood for our advantage. One day a kid swore while sharpening his pencil...Mr. Wood approached him and was going to write him a referral; but the kid apologized and said, "Sorry, my dog died yesterday and it's really affecting me."

Damien, you little devil, you...

Mr. Wood tried to console the kid, with tears in his eye. The student shot us a glance and smiled like Damien in the last scene of The Omen. Mr. Woods disappeared for the rest of the period. We won again. My brother told me the same stories happened at the high school. Everyone tormented Mr. Wood. For years. And the poor man was trying to grieve.

It is disgusting. It was then, at this memory, that I cried. Partially for grandma, but partially because I helped mock a man who lost his world.

And how similar, I am, to that man now. I've lost my dog and my grandma in the same month. Maybe not the same scale, and yes, there are grievable scales to death. 16 is worse than 96...tragedies, unexpected, those who leave many behind...those hurt more. Regardless, this hurts. Grief of any kind, hurts. Maybe even for rodents. But right now I'm hurting for Mr. Woods. A man I haven't seen in over 25 years.

The Bible says, "Blessed are those who mourn, for they shall be comforted."

I'll get past this. My mom, bless her loving soul, will get past this. My cousins and family will all survive this. My grandma was 96 and well loved, and her family is close and will console each other. Grief, of course, will catch us all by surprise weeks, months and even years from now, but we will find joy again.

But what about the thousands millions of Mr. Woods' out there? Who mourns with them? Who comforts them?

I'm sorry Mr. Woods. You deserved more. I know I was a shit 7th grader, but I knew better.

Right now I'm mourning for you. I hope you found comfort.

I'm sorry it took the death of my grandma to really mean it. Grief is weird. 

Btw, if you're wondering what stage of grief I'm experiencing, I'm in the stage where food tastes like it has metal in it. I know this stage will fade. Food will once again taste like it doesn't have metal in it. I'll be okay. 



More stories of terrible lessons learned in Mr. Wood's class: https://plumbeddown.blogspot.com/2012/08/if-you-could-change-events-of-one-day.html#.XiaI7FNKglI