I write this blog moments after receiving an email telling me that my father, Warren Corson II, passed away over night. I was checking my email between sessions as I always do and must say that I never expected this. After closing the office and feeling numb I decided to write in hopes that it may benefit others. We have all experienced loss, some more than others but we have all received that call at one time or another or have had to make those calls. There is no easy way to learn this I guess at least not in the traditional western world (some societies see death as a celebration of life and as a graduation to a better world). But what happens when death is complicated? What if the person was not a saint? What if they could be a real pain in the backside? What if they were not a good person at all? How does one grieve while also remembering the complicated relationship they may have had with the deceased? I have always found it ironic how so many people paint the deceased as a saint; we hear about how great the person was and what a tragic loss. At times this has been said by a person who prior to the death said what an SOB they were, or that they were a waste of air. Sometimes people talk about how the person had overcome their demons prior to their death, which is a nice way of saying that they were not easy to deal with but worked hard to become good people prior to their passing. I think one of the hardest situations is when the survivor was estranged from the person when they died. Sometimes this estrangement was necessary such as when a person flees an abusive relationship. Sometimes it is for trivial reasons; I wonder how hard and complicated this grief can be? I never was the type to lie about someone after they died. I remember when I lost a friend in my teen years. He was a hot dog and kind of an ass but he was a friend. After he passed as a result of showing off that went tragically wrong, so many people painted him the saint. I took heat for saying that he was an ass who took way too many risks and felt he was bulletproof and that he died the way he always lived, pushing things to the limit and being an ass, but that he was my friend and he would be missed. I thought that honesty was the most respectful way to mourn and honor the dead. I think of all the clients I have helped work through complicated grief issues and how most of them moved beyond the pain, confusion and possibly abuse in order to find closure. I think about looking into the eyes of shattered individuals and watching their progression; it is helping me find hope as I type these words. As for me, well my dad was not a saint; he could be a huge ass and a very difficult man to live, work or deal with. He too fell to his demons for many years before clawing his way back. In fact, I went almost a decade with no real contact with him after telling him that my door and my life was open to him but only if he was sober, that I would not accept any more 2 AM drunken calls. I later learned that a few years later he cleaned up his life but never had the courage or whatever you want to call it to call me and tell me. I learned he had been clean for several years, last year when I visited him on what we thought was his death bed. I am proud to say that we mended our fences and when the grand architect called for him, we had no animosity towards each other. Some people focus on the negative; they remember every bad thing the person ever did to them and use it to build blocks to prevent their growth. I could tell you many examples of just how bad my dad could be when his demons were in control but what would that prove? I will say this though; I knew he was really sick when he was being calm, docile and nice to the nurses. When I returned the following week and he was giving them a hard time, I knew he was on the mend. This is not a blog about complicated grief and how devastating it can be but on how complicated grief is still grief and it is how we deal with it that ultimately defines us. We can focus on what the person may have done wrong, or we can acknowledge that they were less than perfect but did what they could. We can focus on retelling the stories of negativity or we can process our loss in as positive a way as possible. That is my choice and this is the story that I choose to remember today. We were poor people that did not go places or do many things but there were a few exceptions. One time when I was likely a bit more than a toddler, my parents, sisters and the neighbors went to a camp ground for the day, perhaps a weekend. I had spent very little one on one time with my dad, who worked second shift , sometimes third and did as much overtime as possible to help us get out of the projects (when I was six we moved into a very modest “fixer upper”), work was hard for an 8th grade dropout but he did what he could. During our camping trip one of the neighbors kids went missing and we all separated to go look for him. My dad, who loved the water, got a row boat and took me with him to go look. I remember seeing him rowing like a pro and looking like a giant as we looked along the banks of the lake for our friend. I remember thinking that one day I would be like him; I would be the hero that would try to save the day. I also remember how powerful he looked and how nice it was to be doing something, just the two of us. I felt safe with him. Eventually my friend was found playing somewhere he was not supposed to be. He was safe and secure. I never was in a boat with my dad again as he was disabled by an industrial accident by the time I was five (my mother was disabled when I was six when a probable drunk driver struck her car; she was blind and paralyzed when she awoke from her coma but in time regained her sight and defying modern medicine learned to walk again) but I will never forget that day or the way he rowed while calling for my friend. I will also never forget his distinct cough which was a result of years of smoking two or more packs a day of unfiltered Camel cigarettes, not treating his allergies and just not taking care of his health. I will remember his laugh and how every once in a while he would say “I love you kid.” I will close my office today to grieve; I will cry, reflect and show support to my family. Soon I will climb back into the rowboat that is my office and like my dad did that day so very many years ago, I will try to be a hero, or at least try to make a difference for others.
Warren Corson III (Doc Warren) is a counselor and the clinical & executive director of a community counseling agency in central CT (www.docwarren.org).