Timing

I have a buddy from my days in East Europe.  His verbal propensities are stunning.  And hilarious.  And our little group always teased him about his odd timing and the abrupt syncopation of his phrasing.  For instance, he was running a short meeting, invited someone to share a thought.  Then as he dismissed the previous speaker, while looking at his notes and itinerary, he absentmindedly muttered:

"Thank you for that, I guess we'll hear from so-and-so now."


Or that's what he meant to say.


The way he broke it up mangled this harmless sentence into a sarcastic, clueless verbal meandering that for some reason we all thought was oh so funny:

"...thank youuuuu... for THAT!  (I guess...) ..."

...

...
 
(awkward stares around the room)

...

(eyes widen in affront - that was rude)

... "we'll - uh, we'll hear from... so-and-so"


A harmless faux pas that we all laughed about later on.


My point?



Timing.



This past weekend we returned to the small but lovable mining town of Battle Mountain for Grandpa Max's funeral.  It was a long and arduous weekend and it's been an emotional roller coaster all week for B.  It's impossible to encapsulate all we've experienced in the last few days in one post, but suffice it to say, it's knit us together as a family and it's helped B. and I grow closer.

Grief is something we hadn't yet experienced as a couple, and I got to see a whole new undiscovered side of my wife the past few days.  She's sobbed into my shoulder and laughed with family and yearned to talk to the wise and witty grandfather who's no longer here.  I've tried to be a support and an anchor to her as best I can.  I've never seen her cry this much this often and it breaks my heart to not be able to fix this for her.

B. and I are different.  We feel different happinesses, we express sorrow differently.  The sorrows and anxieties are still very private things, I think. As much as we want to share everything together, there is a limit to our empathies and sympathies.

When I found out my dad was getting deployed again, I did what I've done before.  Clammed up, manned up, stepped up.  But the difference was, now I wasn't the one who had to drive kids to soccer or carpool or help make dinner or help mom with the laundry or babysit or any of the previous deployment duties I was used to.  I wasn't home anymore.  I had my own life, my own place, my own family.  And I feel bad, because to a degree I think I kind of shut out B.  Poor supportive B. who asked me multiple times what she could do to help, who told me repeatedly not to worry he'd be fine and my family would be more than ok and my brothers and sisters were older now and could help with what I used to do.  I went into autopilot: shut out the world, get to work, try not to miss dad too much, show as little emotion as possible and be an anchor for siblings and mom.  I shut down, and in doing so I shut her out for a bit.

The tables turned a bit this weekend.  I couldn't bring Max back.  All I could do was hold B. tight as we visited his grave and she said goodbye before we drove home.  The whole town seemed to come for the memorial service.  It was just as Max would have wanted: short, sweet, to the point.  A few memories and stories were drawn from a hat and selected by his 13 surviving kids, there was a brief bio, a slideshow, a few prayers, and then we went out to the cemetery.  Short.  Direct.  Perfect.


Timing.


As I tried to help gently corral nieces and nephew during the memorial service, B. remarked - not maliciously, simply an observation - that I hadn't cried.  Everyone else in the whole room seemed to be sobbing and sniffling.  Even my brother-in-law who only knew Max about as well as I did shed a few tears.  I didn't know how to explain it.  I missed him.  I ached to see him again, hear more of his stories, but at that moment, surrounded by family, watching a slideshow of all his memories and wrestling fussy toddlers, my eyes were dry.  I laughed at the funny stories the bishop told, but I didn't cry.

Timing.

After the pallbearers brought his casket to the cemetery and a prayer was said, we lingered there to talk and share and visit.  We found the graves of Max's two sons not far from his own.  More stories, more hugs, more tears.  But not from me.

Afterwards we met at the civic center (the only building in town large enough to hold that number of mourners) for a luncheon catered by the Owl Club - the hotel/restaurant/casino in which Max spent so many years working and helping.  People were a little cheerier, they consoled each other, telling funny stories about good ol' Grandpa.  Nieces and nephews had room and freedom to let out their wiggles.

And suddenly I had no appetite.  I couldn't smile.  I was so depressed, I was shutting down.  I couldn't laugh at the stories.  I couldn't look B. in the eye.  I excused myself and headed to the restroom, stood in a stall and finally wept like a child.


Timing.


Maybe it was a delayed reaction.  Maybe I wasn't distracted by toddlers or other external factors.  Maybe I just couldn't let my wife see me cry, not even at a funeral.  Regardless, I finally did cry, I had my own private meltdown before rejoining the family.  I just couldn't bring them back down again now that everyone was having a good time again.


Timing is everything, they say.  I didn't have the best timing this weekend, but they also say better late than never.



How is timing important to you?




S