Henry and the New York Yankees
I was eleven when my (great) Uncle Henry died.
He was a smallish guy with a Brooklyn accent who always had his hands in his pockets and a scratch sheet folded under his arm. He said everything with a smile and a shrug and always repeated the end of the sentence a couple of times.
“Richie,” he’d tell my father, “You got a million-dollar view here…a million-dollar view. This view…a million dollars.”
I adored him but wasn’t overly surprised by his death which always seemed immanent to me…the raspy voice, ever-present stogie, and the overall oldness of him. (To me, he was ancient at 63.)
My grandmother was devastated at the untimely loss of her little brother.
Annie, (my grandmother) spent a lot of time with us, and while my father loved his mother-in-law, he found her to be overly dramatic and somewhat phony. This was never more apparent than when there was a death in the family.
It was about a week after Uncle Henry’s funeral and my grandmother was sitting on our couch reading the New York Daily News, when, out of nowhere…
“HENRY, Henry, HENRY, h e n r y,” she shouted his name, openly weeping, pulling her hair and eventually, biting her hand in that soft span between pointer finger and thumb.
The whole household came running in.
By the time most of them arrived – just a few moments after it had begun – it was over, and Annie picked the paper up off her lap, turned the page, and said to my grandfather, “ooh, Johnny, the Yankees are playing tonight.”
My dad rolled his eyes.
It was over 30 years later when I learned that Annie had gotten it right. That’s what grief looks like, an overwhelming wave of pain and emotion washing over you unbidden and without warning. The wave actually does pass quickly, even if there’s another one cueing up five minutes later.
The only thing that extends each wave is what we tell ourselves about it.
My grandmother could have gone on, “he should be here, his life was too short, I should have been a better sister, etc.” Those narratives are what constitute suffering.
The pain of grief as it rips through us is a necessary thing. It is productive. It allows us to eventually heal.
The pain of suffering only extends grief, adding weight and dimension, robbing us of catharsis, slowing – even halting – our healing.
When we allow ourselves to feel the pain of grief fully, without adding layers of suffering, we honor not just what was lost but the act of living itself. The key is in trusting that each wave, no matter how awful, brings us closer to peace.