The Numerical Rating Scale of Grief by Nadine Thomas

Level 8

In December of 2020, two weeks before Christmas, my father died of Covid-19.

The numerical rating scale is a pain scale that is used to measure the scale of pain you're feeling when you're at the hospital. You’re asked to rate the level of pain you are in from 1-10. Around the time of my father’s death both me and my mother were hospitalized because we were also suffering from Covid-19. The nurse had used the numerical rating scale when I was rushed into the Emergency room. I told them I had a pain level of 8, but I wanted to say level 10.

We spent two weeks at the hospital. We were the only ones on the same floor. I

remember every few days they would ask me to rate the level of pain in my chest. The

numbers had varied with the medicine I was given to treat it. The two weeks were spent eating disgusting hospital food, drinking chunky hot chocolate, and eating mediocre peanut butter and jelly sandwiches.

Honestly, hospital food sucks.

After the two weeks had ended, they asked me, for the last time, to rate my pain on

the scale of 1-10, I said 4. I was allowed to go home on Christmas night, alone. I was thefirst one to return to an empty house. My mom was still sick, and she needed extra treatment. I was home late at night. Everything in the house looked out of place, like I didn’t belong there - everything felt fractured. The unopened Christmas gifts sat neatly under the tree, with the holiday decorations that engulfed the house in an eerie silence. I remember I took a shower; I got dressed, I laid down on the couch, and that’s where I was for three days until mom came home.

Level 10, and Level 7

I don't remember the radio being on. We weren't in complete silence; my mother and

uncle were conversing quietly in the front seat. Since my parents were divorced, when my father died I was the one to decide if my father’s funeral service would have an open or closed casket. Due to my mother and I having both gone through Covid, the funeral had to be held two weeks after we had been discharged from the hospital. The three of us were standing in the visitation room of the funeral home. I remember my mom begging me to close Dad’s casket. “Close it, Nadine.... Please.... He wouldn’t want to be seen like this.” I didn't want to see him like this either. It didn't feel like him, lying in there. Dad was always a heavy snorer; it was alien, seeing him lying down and not snoring. I would rate my pain as a level 10.

While we sat quietly in the car, two of my father’s co-workers walked up.

One of them handed me a condolences card that was signed by all his co-workers. My father worked for the MBTA green line as a conductor. The other one had handed me a yellow envelope. She had said, it from his friends at the T, he’d want you to have it. I opened it after they both left; it was a check for one thousand dollars. His co-workers had raised money to give me in honor of my dad. I don't remember if I had thanked them or not, I was depressed, silenced by both grief and numbness. My mom had most likely answered for me, my pain was at a level 10. I wish that I could tell you that the funeral service was beautiful and heartfelt, and that the funeral home was huge. But I feel like the opposite happened. Because my mom and I were sick, we weren’t able to make funeral arrangements, that responsibility was left with my father’s side of the family. My father’s side of the family are extremely cheap; If Mr. Krabs was a real person, his relatives would have made up my father’s side of the family.

The funeral home was small and cramped: it barely fit the huge line of people that had wanted to pay their respects to my dad. The pastor that spoke at the funeral didn't know anything about my dad and was extremely generic in her sermons. I remember her saying that “he will only be allowed to enter the kingdom of heaven if he is Baptized!”

Growing up my dad was a very religious man, I don't remember if he was baptized

though. Would he go to hell if he wasn’t? Do good people go to hell? Is heaven some kind of house, and getting baptized was getting the keys? I decided that I did not like that pastor. I remember some family members spoke about him. Dad was always referred to as a Uniter. He made sure that relatives that were far away always knew that they were welcome to come back home to Boston if need be. When I was my turn to speak about him, I don’t remember what I had said at my father’s funeral, but I remember the memories that played back in my mind. I remember our trips to the Randolph Movie Theatre. I remember the times that I would lose something, and the many times that I was upset, and he was always there to make me laugh. I remember the car rides we’d have, with him picking me up from school and going through the drive thru at Burger king. I remember all the times we would make fun of Mom, and sneak bites of her dessert while she wasn't looking at Applebee's. As I'm addressing the members of the funeral, My grief level is stuck at 10.

The funeral singer sounded like a strangled cat. The song was “His Eye was on the Sparrow”. The singer sounded like a dollar store brand version of Lauryn Hill.

It was as if she was just using her time to do some awful karaoke. I felt bad

for whoever else this woman had to sing for. I miss my dad but having a funeral singer that sounded like a dying whale alleviated some of my pain if only for a day. My mom had asked me if I was okay because she thought I was crying. I told her the singer sounds like a choking cat. We both were giggling in our seats. I’d rate my pain as a 7 towards the end of the service.