Middle-Aged Orphans—The Forgotten Grievers

I am not the same person I was when my mom died. I am not the same person I was when my dad died. I am not the same person I was a year ago. I am forever learning, forever growing, forever transitioning into a better version of myself, striving to accept life as a school rather than a victim of what it has taken from me. 

At the age of twenty-eight, my life was vibrant. I was happily married, a mother to a four-year-old and a five-month-old, and my mom and I were never closer. Then—in the blink of an eye—one week after her fifty-fifth birthday, she died of a massive heart attack. Nothing prepared me for her loss. Nothing prepared me for the raw sting of grief. Nothing prepared me for how my world would be forever changed.

 

When my eighty-two-year-old dad lost his five-year battle to congestive heart failure nine years ago, even though I anticipated his death, even though I'd the chance to say goodbye, to say all the things I wished I'd said to my mom, it didn't make my grief more accessible. I still grieved deeply for him. But the thought of being an orphan hadn't even crossed my mind. Nor did I encounter any feelings of the permanence of being parentless.

 

However, weeks later, the sudden awareness that both of my parents were now gone, that I'd lost my identity as their daughter, left a gaping void in my life, bringing with it inescapable loneliness.

 

While I realize everyone's journey is unique, it got me thinking about how middle-aged orphans are often the forgotten grievers. Why? Because, inadvertently, many in society deem middle-aged orphan grief less worthy of the attention it deserves, thereby robbing the unrestricted right to grieve, leaving grief in limbo. 

 

Like myself, you may have felt (or others have unknowingly made you feel) that because our loved one was older when they died, our daily routines should resume without much interruption because death is, after all, the natural order of life. 

 

But does that mean we should put a time limit on our grief? 

 

Can't we be grateful that our loved one lived to be a ripe old age and deeply bereave at the same time?

 

No doubt, losing my mom was very tragic, unlike the anticipation of losing my dad, but my point is: grief still altered my life in both instances.

 

Furthermore, when our last parent dies, whether we had a great relationship with them or whether we had unresolved issues or was estranged, their death marks an end to an era, sometimes forcing us to evaluate our lives and make peace with our imperfect childhood.

 

Helen Keller wisely said, "The best and most beautiful things in the world cannot be seen or even touched; they must be felt with the heart." 

 

Writing became not only an avenue to tune into my emotions after Dad died but also the conduit that opened my heart to healing.

 

Whether it was through penmanship or sitting at my computer, the days I'd sit down to write about my childhood memories sparked a magical inspiration in me. It was the magic of a little girl coming to life in a new light. And as she wrote and dug deeper and deeper into her memory bank, whatever met her along the way, whatever rose in her body, soul, and mind, there in the midst, even amongst the tears, she found joy, she found laughter, she found happiness, as well as pain and regret. But most importantly, she found an incredible sense of peace. 

 

This encounter with peace paved the way to bridging the gap between my childhood and being a middle-aged orphan. It was the peace of knowing that both of my parents were finally together again, of understanding that being a middle-aged orphan doesn't have to represent an empty life or a lonely heart, nor does it have to define my personal history. Instead, glancing back reminds me that the good memories are to be cherished and the bad ones forgiven, if not forgotten. That the twenty-eight years I'd with my mom and the fifty-two years I'd with my dad fills my heart with so much thankfulness, presenting a realization that— as imperfect as my childhood was—my parents did the best they could for me.

 

All of us will have to cross the threshold of parental loss if we live long enough. Maybe you have already made the journey across. If so, while your parents won't be seated at the dinner table this Christmas, know that they will be present in your heart, sitting next to Christ, the Prince of Peace, lovingly whispering Merry Christmas to your soul.

                              Have a blessed Christmas and a prosperous New Year.