Three to five days is the amount of time most places of employment allow for the bereavement of a parent. I watched my mother, actively dying, for longer than that. It took longer than that to plan her funeral, let friends and family know about her passing, and write her eulogy.
Less than a week of paid time off to plan, prepare, and comprehend the loss of a parent before you’re placed right back in your seat, in front of a computer or students or customers. Less than a week to do the impossible– say goodbye to your beloved mother or father. Less than a week to find a way to breathe again, find your steps again, and simply be willing to step forward into this new future.
You have three to five days to collect yourself, broken pieces and all, and look presentable enough to fulfill your professional duties.
You go back before you’re ready. You go back because you have to. You have adult responsibilities and a family to provide for financially. If you were only providing for them emotionally, you’d be right there beside them, not sitting here– working.
Coworkers come in to check on you. Most want you to say that you’re ok and not make them uncomfortable with the truth of your pain and your grief. You notice that some of them act as if grief is a contagious illness, or if your experience could somehow sprinkle onto their lives, a loved one dying of cancer– too young, too early. You wonder if some of them stopped by just to make sure you’re back, lightening the load they had to manage while you were gone, not sincerely compassionate about the emptiness you now feel or how you look the same but will never be the same.
Grief has entered their workspace. You brought it with you and to most it’s scary and intimidating and unwelcome. To a few empathetic souls who’ve experienced its wrath, it’s understood. You quickly learn how life and work and living go on for those around you, while feeling so betrayed by that truth.
You sit. You stare. You hurt.
You work– after all, you have to.
As you stare at the employment contract that states the amount of days, per loved one, for bereavement purposes you can’t help but feel like it’s similar to the estimate of life your mother was given when they found the cancer returned; both timelines that feel unfair and unjust. One, an estimate of life. The other, the allocated time to plan, prepare, and experience the unimaginable.
Work is different after profound loss. As you sit here with tears streaming down your face you wonder how you’ve never been enlightened or taught about this reality. You look around and wonder how many others like you are in this building. How many others are in this place of employment holding grief and mourning you’ve been oblivious to? How many others came back out of duty, not out of readiness, just like you?
You aren’t sure, but you vow to never be oblivious again. Even in your immense heartbreak, you vow to watch for others, to pay attention to their emptiness, to pay attention to the moments someone is back at work physically but still invisibly tethered to the place their loved one took their final breaths or the place they buried the very person who created them.
For now you work because you have to, while simultaneously trying to acknowledge the harsh realities of these past days, and eventually you’ll pursue healing.
All things that take longer than the world gives you.
All things that take longer than three to five days.
