Going On As Opposed To Moving On

There are a lot of things in life that we need to move on from.  The big things like bad relationships, sour friendships, down to the little things like a rotten test score.  We look at these things as hurdles to get over in life.  Things that we’ve survived, made it through, not been defeated by.

Everyone so often mentions moving on.  It’s like life is a never ending cycle of goig through something horrible, but picking yourself up and moving on.  Not letting that ‘horrible’ thing spoil you from living the rest of your life.  Some people succeed.  Others don’t.

Yet then there’s going on.  Nobody ever mentions going on.  Well, I’m going to.  Because I was thinking about it today and I discovered I’m never going to get over Nana’s death.  I’m never going to move on from losing her.  And in every way I can think of, I also don’t want to move on.

Now, to the average observer, that may look like I’ll be in tears and mourning her constantly for years to come.  Yes, I’m still going to be crying for years to come.  I still can’t read my entry, written the day she died, without crying.  I didn’t last five minutes at the memorial when my dad started talking.

But you know what?  Even though I’ll never move on from her death, I will go on with my life.  The memories and everything aren’t things that I want to move on from, because as tearstreaked as they make me, they are happy memories, mostly.

I love Nana and that’s what’s going to be my drive to get my novels published.  Because I also found out something yesterday.  My dad got his love of art from his dad.  But he got his love of stories from his mom.  My Nana.  So, without knowing it, Nana and my dad’s dad, (whatever I would have called him, had he lived to see me be born and grow,) gave me my love of art and writing.

I’ll write about this more in detail when I write about the memorial service, but one of the things in my dad’s speech yesterday was about his dad’s last moments of life.  He said that he called Nana to his bedside, and she went to him, saying, "Yes, Johnny?" — a name that had been given up when my dad, also named John, was born.  My dad said that he took her hand and said just three words:  "I love you."

My dad went on to say that those words, spoken by her husband, sustained her for thirty-seven years without him.

He died fourteen years before I was born.  I know so little about him.  I can’t say that I feel like I knew him, because I don’t.  But I can say, without a doubt, that when it truly mattered, when he knew that those words might be his last, he spoke his heart to the woman who had given hers to him.  And I can only hope that one day, I’ll have someone to call to my bedside and say those words to.  Because in the end, that’s what really matters.

I’ll go on with my life.  No doubt about that.  I’ll accomplish things and live out at least some of my dreams.  And I’ll never forget those words, or my Nana.

Dolly talked about my emotional strength recently.  Saying that she envied it, but that it must be rather lonely.  I admit, it is.  I don’t know if everyone just thinks that I don’t break down or whatever, but I don’t think anyone would know how to react if I did.  I don’t keep it inside.  I learned long ago, and have had rather startling reminders since, how dangerous that can be.  But I guess I’m taking a page from Jason’s book here, I shed my tears alone.  Aside from yesterday, and one or two other public occasions, only a handful of people have ever seen me cry.  And only three have ever seen me all-out sobbing.

Though emotional strength does have it’s advantages.  I know if huge emotional strains kept happening to me, one right after the other, I would come damn near close to breaking, if not break under the pressure.  But though I’ve come close, I’ve never emotionally broken down.  I always catch myself, or someone catches me and makes me care again.  Lately, it’s been more the first than the second.  Or perhaps a healthier mix of both.  Or maybe I’m learning to save myself at the same time someone’s reaching a hand to me.

I’m crying now.  Both literally and in a figurative sense.  But I will go on with my life.  I’ll carry my memories of her close to my heart, and never forget her.

But I will go on.