First year down, Grief doing what It wants...
Grief is such a strange thing. I know this and studied this, and ironically, have become a quasi-expert in this and profess it as my "niche", but I continue to be fascinated by how I am responding to my own grief. It weaves and comes through me at the most unexpected times. We grieve forever, but the acute pain fades, then rears its head back up when least expected. I thought I was making space for my grief and then, naturally, it just does what it wants. I had expected Father's Day to be sad, but it wasn't. My brain was like, meh, you don't have a father now and I was like, "That wasn't very nice, but okay." I didn't miss my father on Father's Day. I had this sense of reverse guilt, like "Why shouldn't I miss my father?" but that was quickly squashed because I just, well, didn't. And that was okay. I actually missed Fidget's father? Who is still alive? And I desperately missed his grandfather, but none of my own blooded family. Momma missed my father horribly on Father's Day, then was mad about it. I told her she won- she had two dead fathers AND a dead husband, and Momma was satisfied by that logic.
I missed my father on my birthday a week later. I thought that was odd. I don't miss him on Father's Day, THE Day of Fathers? But my birthday? I mean, it could make sense, but still. Such an odd thing to observe.
I had expected this week to be problematic. Fidget's birthday, our nine-year (!) dating anniversary, and then my father's first death anniversary. But last week? It came through in mild mind niggling, then full force on Thursday. Last Tuesday (9/17), I had the random thought of "Oh, this is when I saw Da-ee walk again for the first time." I had major concerns about bringing him home, but my too-tall father walked around supported with gait belts and much-smaller men, 55 pounds lighter and what seemed to be a full foot taller than I had seen him in a decade. It gave me confidence I could bring him home from the rehab, that he could continue to heal. He got in and out of the car with minimal assistance; I was so proud. The thought came into my brain like a wisp of cologne-heavy smoke, then wisped its way right back out.
Last Thursday (9/19) really rocked me unexpectedly. I woke up on the couch, having weird sleep and going downstairs to snooze on a couch with a confused old man cat. My first thought was, "I overslept! I have to go get Da-ee!" And then my slowly-waking brain caught up to that thought and I had yet another meta-grief reaction. How strange that my brain would think that, a year later, that I was late to picking up my now-dead father from his rehab on his discharge day? I still needed to pick up flowers, write a card, and collect Momma? But that thought colored the rest of my day, leaving me to quietly sob in my abandoned office at work, surrounded by shells and pasta from across the street. A coworker stopped by to rectify a misunderstanding from the previous night and I tried to modulate my voice, then give space to the grief I was feeling. We reconciled and then she hugged me because maybe she understood what it was like to be wracked by grief when you're off guard.
The next days were fine. Why wouldn't they be? Nothing happened those days. We had been packing to go to D.C. for Fidget's birthday, and despite fighting with my mother, my father seemed to be acclimating to moving home. I finally breathed on that vacation, all was right with the world.
We packed up Saturday, the three of us left, and drove five hours south to a slow beach riddled with Navy personnel. The original plan was to get to a beach, and I thought Norfolk because I had never been here. But the more we're here, the more I think of him and how he would have loved it here. We settled into our AirBnB and I helped Momma settle into her hotel room 10 minutes south, without her packed cell phone and miscellaneous other things that made her scared and sad because she couldn't just pick up and go on a trip again at a moment's notice. I registered for a local burner number so at least she could still call me.
Monday was Fidget's birthday! And we ate and went places, and I found a D&D tournament happening at the local comic store. And I was the Best Wife Ever. And Fidget played and I made snide comments, then left to hang with Momma. I took a picture that day from Momma's balcony and still had this urge to send it to my father- why would I do that? Wouldn't he had been with her? And still my brain wants me to send him pictures that he wouldn't receive. Funny, Brain.
I was surprised by yesterday (9/25) when I was overwhelmed with the memory of "this was when it was going down," when I made the call and Momma said he was having a stroke and to come over. It enveloped me on this too-hard couch, folding myself into Fidget's lap as I periodically cried and sobbed on his jean leg. The hospital, the planning, the understanding he wasn't coming back. That I needed to plan for my mother, the mild flash of absolute terror then the sudden solidness of "handle it, Pooh" and so I did.
We did a small beach walk yesterday; Fidget truly hates the beach. So we doused ourselves in lotion and walked down. The beach was practically abandoned, little jetties out in the water. I waded in waist deep, doggie-paddled for a bit, then sat on the towel with my husband. I looked out over the water, then closed my eyes. I could hear the water, smell the salt, feel my toes in the sand. I said hello to my father in my mind; he always loved the sea. Then we packed up and walked back, my mind mentally preparing for the thoughts of him or picking up my mother last year to have her stay at our house while my father was dying. I was ready for the grief to come on full force.
So today? Today is the Big Day, right? THE DEATH ANNIVERSARY! Cue the ill-timed sobs and the swollen eyes and low appetite. Cue the immediate and painful grief reaction. Let it wreck me. I planned for this! I took time off and brought my husband and my mother and I am sitting here, ready for grief! Bring it! Dead father, BRING IT ON!
I had read late into the morning, finally going to bed around 0400. I had that wispy smoke thought again, "the doctor would call in four hours to ask about the central line" and then it wisped back out. I went to bed, expecting horrid dreams and my father to visit me and cry a lot, and maybe Fidget would hold me as I bore down on our too-firm AirBnB mattress to let the grief overcome me. I was ready.
Then I woke up. No bad dreams or dead father visiting. At noon? And Momma had called, so I called her back. I puttered around, making coffee and avocado toast, and read a new book. My husband still slept on the too-firm mattress. So I sat on this too-hard couch and waited. C'MON GRIEF.
But no. My mother is sad. She thought of his death today as she was dutifully doing her postcards (mine went out yesterday). We had talked before of doing something to honor him, but maybe not? Maybe I don't need to today. It's crass and that's fine (so look away if you must), but my father being dead is a fact I can't change and can't undo. I don't miss him everyday and I don't feel grief overcome me; it doesn't mean I'm doing it wrong. There are times where my brain just chants My father is dead. My father is dead. My father is dead. and that's not particularly helpful, but my brain tires out, as one does, and I go off to the next topic or shiny thing I was thinking to do. I'll still smile when I hear a siren; it always seems like one fires when I'm upset, like maybe he's overlooking me and sees that I'm sad. Or it's more the proximity effect and I'm more acutely aware of sirens since my dead father was a firefighter- I don't believe my father's off sitting on a cloud somewhere.
They say the first year is the hardest. And maybe it was? I really don't have any comparison- never had my father die before. It was odd when the thoughts would rush about on days I hadn't expected them to, but I now know which days to prepare for. I definitely need to make space on his birthday since that got both Momma and me. And their anniversary would be next year, my weird mother and her weird leap year-ness. The second year still has more grief; I'll forever be grieving my father. He is half of me, after all. And there are distinct things I do that are NOT of my mother. It is comforting to have this niche in grief and realize that just because my father is dead does not mean my relationship with him is...
... I might have a dead father, but I will never not be my dead father's daughter.
I missed my father on my birthday a week later. I thought that was odd. I don't miss him on Father's Day, THE Day of Fathers? But my birthday? I mean, it could make sense, but still. Such an odd thing to observe.
I had expected this week to be problematic. Fidget's birthday, our nine-year (!) dating anniversary, and then my father's first death anniversary. But last week? It came through in mild mind niggling, then full force on Thursday. Last Tuesday (9/17), I had the random thought of "Oh, this is when I saw Da-ee walk again for the first time." I had major concerns about bringing him home, but my too-tall father walked around supported with gait belts and much-smaller men, 55 pounds lighter and what seemed to be a full foot taller than I had seen him in a decade. It gave me confidence I could bring him home from the rehab, that he could continue to heal. He got in and out of the car with minimal assistance; I was so proud. The thought came into my brain like a wisp of cologne-heavy smoke, then wisped its way right back out.
Last Thursday (9/19) really rocked me unexpectedly. I woke up on the couch, having weird sleep and going downstairs to snooze on a couch with a confused old man cat. My first thought was, "I overslept! I have to go get Da-ee!" And then my slowly-waking brain caught up to that thought and I had yet another meta-grief reaction. How strange that my brain would think that, a year later, that I was late to picking up my now-dead father from his rehab on his discharge day? I still needed to pick up flowers, write a card, and collect Momma? But that thought colored the rest of my day, leaving me to quietly sob in my abandoned office at work, surrounded by shells and pasta from across the street. A coworker stopped by to rectify a misunderstanding from the previous night and I tried to modulate my voice, then give space to the grief I was feeling. We reconciled and then she hugged me because maybe she understood what it was like to be wracked by grief when you're off guard.
The next days were fine. Why wouldn't they be? Nothing happened those days. We had been packing to go to D.C. for Fidget's birthday, and despite fighting with my mother, my father seemed to be acclimating to moving home. I finally breathed on that vacation, all was right with the world.
We packed up Saturday, the three of us left, and drove five hours south to a slow beach riddled with Navy personnel. The original plan was to get to a beach, and I thought Norfolk because I had never been here. But the more we're here, the more I think of him and how he would have loved it here. We settled into our AirBnB and I helped Momma settle into her hotel room 10 minutes south, without her packed cell phone and miscellaneous other things that made her scared and sad because she couldn't just pick up and go on a trip again at a moment's notice. I registered for a local burner number so at least she could still call me.
Monday was Fidget's birthday! And we ate and went places, and I found a D&D tournament happening at the local comic store. And I was the Best Wife Ever. And Fidget played and I made snide comments, then left to hang with Momma. I took a picture that day from Momma's balcony and still had this urge to send it to my father- why would I do that? Wouldn't he had been with her? And still my brain wants me to send him pictures that he wouldn't receive. Funny, Brain.
I was surprised by yesterday (9/25) when I was overwhelmed with the memory of "this was when it was going down," when I made the call and Momma said he was having a stroke and to come over. It enveloped me on this too-hard couch, folding myself into Fidget's lap as I periodically cried and sobbed on his jean leg. The hospital, the planning, the understanding he wasn't coming back. That I needed to plan for my mother, the mild flash of absolute terror then the sudden solidness of "handle it, Pooh" and so I did.
We did a small beach walk yesterday; Fidget truly hates the beach. So we doused ourselves in lotion and walked down. The beach was practically abandoned, little jetties out in the water. I waded in waist deep, doggie-paddled for a bit, then sat on the towel with my husband. I looked out over the water, then closed my eyes. I could hear the water, smell the salt, feel my toes in the sand. I said hello to my father in my mind; he always loved the sea. Then we packed up and walked back, my mind mentally preparing for the thoughts of him or picking up my mother last year to have her stay at our house while my father was dying. I was ready for the grief to come on full force.
So today? Today is the Big Day, right? THE DEATH ANNIVERSARY! Cue the ill-timed sobs and the swollen eyes and low appetite. Cue the immediate and painful grief reaction. Let it wreck me. I planned for this! I took time off and brought my husband and my mother and I am sitting here, ready for grief! Bring it! Dead father, BRING IT ON!
I had read late into the morning, finally going to bed around 0400. I had that wispy smoke thought again, "the doctor would call in four hours to ask about the central line" and then it wisped back out. I went to bed, expecting horrid dreams and my father to visit me and cry a lot, and maybe Fidget would hold me as I bore down on our too-firm AirBnB mattress to let the grief overcome me. I was ready.
Then I woke up. No bad dreams or dead father visiting. At noon? And Momma had called, so I called her back. I puttered around, making coffee and avocado toast, and read a new book. My husband still slept on the too-firm mattress. So I sat on this too-hard couch and waited. C'MON GRIEF.
But no. My mother is sad. She thought of his death today as she was dutifully doing her postcards (mine went out yesterday). We had talked before of doing something to honor him, but maybe not? Maybe I don't need to today. It's crass and that's fine (so look away if you must), but my father being dead is a fact I can't change and can't undo. I don't miss him everyday and I don't feel grief overcome me; it doesn't mean I'm doing it wrong. There are times where my brain just chants My father is dead. My father is dead. My father is dead. and that's not particularly helpful, but my brain tires out, as one does, and I go off to the next topic or shiny thing I was thinking to do. I'll still smile when I hear a siren; it always seems like one fires when I'm upset, like maybe he's overlooking me and sees that I'm sad. Or it's more the proximity effect and I'm more acutely aware of sirens since my dead father was a firefighter- I don't believe my father's off sitting on a cloud somewhere.
They say the first year is the hardest. And maybe it was? I really don't have any comparison- never had my father die before. It was odd when the thoughts would rush about on days I hadn't expected them to, but I now know which days to prepare for. I definitely need to make space on his birthday since that got both Momma and me. And their anniversary would be next year, my weird mother and her weird leap year-ness. The second year still has more grief; I'll forever be grieving my father. He is half of me, after all. And there are distinct things I do that are NOT of my mother. It is comforting to have this niche in grief and realize that just because my father is dead does not mean my relationship with him is...
... I might have a dead father, but I will never not be my dead father's daughter.