They say that smell is one of the strongest triggers for memory. And as the spring air starts to blow into Chicago, I am almost taken aback by the return of memories I've wished to forget. As I awoke yesterday morning, I had a random, yet strong memory of walking down the long hall on the 9th floor ICU of Northwestern Memorial Hospital. Bringing friends and family to see my dad, reminding me of a living wake. The bright florescent lights, the medical staff avoiding eye contact with grieving and frightened family members, or even worse, giving you the look of sympathy, the smell of the antibacterial lotion and the sounds of the predictable beats on the machines and the sound of my dad's breathing machine, in . . . and out . . . in . . and out. In that moment early yesterday morning, I was overcome with my own fear again. Knowing cognitively that we have moved beyond the pain to the healing but also paying homage to my loss that week in March that still lives very deeply in my heart.
In this past year I have had friends who have lost parents. And I often feel some form of survivor's guilt. Why does my child get to have her grandpa and not my friends? Why do I get move back into the every day with my dad? Why do I get the luxury of forgetting?
I was listening to a Leonard Cohen song this morning that many of you may know, Hallelujah. And I love his description of Hallelujah.
"And it's not a cry that you hear at night. It's not somebody who's seen the light. It's a cold and it's a broken hallelujah."
For me, it really sums up the feelings on the last year. A broken hallelujah. So thankful for God's healing and for our embracing community. And still so raw. As spring comes I'm reminded of new life and the chance of new life my dad has been given. Hallelujah.
-Barbara
