Father's Day and the faltering grammar of grief

WEDNESDAY, JUNE 13: Fifteen years ago on June 2, 1997 I stood resolute and defiant alongside my uncles Carlton (now deceased), Roddy, and Larry and my brother Colwyn Jr. to pay our tribute, to offer our respects and to proffer a robust and final farewell to my father, Colwyn Eugene Hilgrove ‘Bill’ Burchall, a former ZFB-TV broadcaster and journalist and Bermuda Regiment trombonist, and euphonist.

My soul stirred as the lone bugler stood erect and still on top of a tiny grass clearing to our left and with the polished precision that only comes with many hours of practice, the bugler rhythmically and methodically belted out Last Post, a plaintive prayerful homily, a sermonic summons set to music. 

Its slow, staccato symmetry is the embodiment of safety and security, nestled in the silence between the blasts; it spells out hope, peace, and rest; it parses our grief into meaningful, manageable parcels.

For those of us who are proud to wear the Bermuda Regiment uniform, Last Post means that our duty is now done, it is time to sleep. Last Post is onomato-poetry at its purest.

But as Father’s Day approaches, I feel a pain at a depth I cannot fathom.  It’s beneath the Mariana Trench. 

I am disjointed, unfocused and out of sync with my own self. I want the tears to wash away this pain but I am perpetually locked in the jaws of chaos.  I have bitten into a bitter fruit and I wince even as my eyes well up with water.  But there is no relief.

This pain ravages my innards like a forest fire, an inferno that is too hot to touch even as it rages out of control at the core of my being.

I thought that by now, 15 years later, since we buried my father in Pembroke Parish Cemetery, I would be over this. I thought that I would have found closure, reconciliation and peace.  Instead, a heavy coat of soot and ash has descended over me and I have bonded, eternally it seems, with my grief.

It erodes my soul like concentrated sulphuric acid. It is a chasm that cannot be bridged.

It’s a pain that cannot be measured, limited, logically expressed or reasoned out. My heart is wrapped in gloom. My brain tastes the bitter embers. The song of my soul is out of tune.

So what is this grammar of grief that stalks my waking hours? It feels like I am riding a galloping, bucking bronco that is kicking wildly and spinning. And as I hold on to its mane, I shiver, shake and quake and I feel nauseated.

How do I reckon with the wreckage of my father’s suicide? What is the proper perspective to take? What is the angle of vision? What is the language that will enable me to fairly articulate this pain?

My father faced down his demons, anxieties, emotional fears, disappointments and frustrations with self-possession and quiet resolve. He made a plan. He executed his plan. And he succeeded.

My father was courageous but my father was not very brave. I can understand that he did not want the pain. I can understand that he did not want to endure any more emotional suffering. I respect his wish to let go of life. For him the end came and it came quickly.

But what about me?

There is not enough glue and duct tape in the universe to knit me back together again. I have been set adrift in an ocean of pain and grief.

I am collateral damaged goods; the unintended consequence of my father’s solitary decision.  Somewhere and at some level, I am sure my dad is free, the pain is gone and serenity is the eternal order. I am glad he is resting in peace. 

But what about me?  

The charred remains of hope and the scorched emotional earth that is my dad’s legacy to me today are everywhere present, what am I to do with this gift? What can grow here in this tainted soil?

That is the legacy of the son when a father commits suicide. It’s like texting with one thumb.  Who am I now? What do I do now?

It’s 15 years later and I am still suffering. So what will I do this Father’s day?  I have resolved that I will remember that the ocean of grief is deep and wide with swift shifting undertows; so I tread water. I keep my head up and my body erect, and I move my feet up and down.  I dare not stop.  I cannot stop because if I stop, I sink and if I sink, I will drown.

This ocean is bigger and stronger than I am or ever will be. This grief is bigger and stronger than I am as well. So I tread water, I keep my head up because that is where the air is and where I can still feel the sunshine on my face. And that pleases and soothes and comforts me. I desire to swim but I cannot. I am not that strong.

I compose a song to pass the time but it is woefully off key and the words don’t rhyme and the melody has no meaning and the rhythm does not keep time.  I seek a comfort that’s just not there.

So I will just tread water, I will keep my head up, my body erect and I will move my feet up and down. I will keep my head up because that is where the air is and where I feel the sunshine on my face. 

That’s what emotional palliation feels like for me today. I now understand why Jesus never laughed and why Socrates never cried. 

Maybe, just maybe, one day I will emotionally doe den tap toe, but until then, happy Father’s Day dearest Daddy.

It’s been 15 years since we buried you, but for me I will borrow the words of Welsh poet Dylan Thomas and say: “Curse, bless, me now with your fierce tears I pray, but do not go gentle into that good night. Continue to rage, rage against the dying of the light’’.

If you do that, dearest Daddy, I promise that I will continue to tread water.

John-Anthony Burchall M.Div is a former Public Affairs Officer in the Department of Communication and Information, Bermuda Government. He is an Associate Minister at Covenant Baptist United Church of Christ in Washington DC and a chaplain, for Montgomery Hospice, Rockville Maryland.