Getting to Know Grief

The thing about Grief that not everyone realizes is that it’s not just a word or a feeling or a pit stop on a journey. I capitalize it because Grief is the proper name of a living, moving presence. There are many different types of Grief, but for my purposes, I’m going to focus on the one that is the heaviest and most deeply permanent; the Grief that is formerly introduced upon losing a loved one.

I have now lived through over two whole years without a dad.

Typing that and seeing it written out is both surreal and sobering. I never imagined those words would be my reality at 24-years-old. Even in his illness, I had all the confidence in the world that my dad would pull through, beat the cancer, and come out on the other side a better person for it. He was strong like I am strong. And he fought. It wasn’t until the evening of February 24, 2016 sitting next to his hospital bed watching his breathing become labored and his unconscious body start to fail that I felt my confidence slip. Day turned into night turned into day but I barely noticed. Then as the hours slowed down to minutes and then seconds that stretched on for years, time finally stopped.

At 10:31 AM on February 25, 2016 I officially met Grief for the first time.

In the days to follow, Grief stepped back to allow Shock and Responsibility to have their turns so I didn’t yet realize what exactly I was in for. Gradually the masses who had gathered to show their support for me and my family went back to their normal lives; the flurry of activities, visitors, cards, and casseroles slowed and finally stopped. It got quiet. And that is when Grief returned to its rightful place.

Grief started out standing directly in front of me, a huge black faceless mass. I couldn’t really see anything else because it blocked my view. There was no side-stepping, no sneaking around, no running the other direction. Wherever I went, it went. That was the darkest time. I couldn’t see, I couldn’t breathe, I couldn’t feel from Grief and so I stopped caring. For months I didn’t care whether I was at work or at home, whether I had eaten, how many hours I spent lying in my bed, and honestly there were points where I simply didn’t care if I was alive or not. But somehow I didn’t stop functioning. My dog needed me, my work needed me, my family members needed me; so I put on a happy face, hoped the people around me wouldn't notice the darkness I was trapped behind—trapped within—and I blindly pressed on.

Time passed, I met some new friends, started leaving the house of my own accord, and I found myself with a smile that was occasionally genuine. At some point, I realized that Grief had shifted its position. Instead of always being in front of me, it was now more frequently beside me; not blocking my view, but always a dark spot in my peripheral vision. I had to be careful because if I turned my head I would once again be confronting Grief face-to-face, and I considered Grief my greatest enemy. Grief is what made me to randomly break down in a bar at a trivia night; it’s what caused me to have to run to the bathroom at work because I couldn’t stop the tears from falling; it’s what left me with nothing to give emotionally, and I hated it. So I practiced and perfected looking straight ahead.

As I moved forward, I sensed that Grief was moving to a new spot as well. At this point, it was behind me and smaller, more human-sized. It was a presence that I could always feel, but if I didn’t turn around to look at it I was able to pretend it wasn’t there. For a while, I felt like I had conquered my enemy. Then it started poking me. It would remind me that I didn’t visit my dad as much as I could have. I would push it away. It would remind me of the words to one of his favorite songs. I would push it away. It would remind me of that day he was in the hospital and I showed him funny videos and he laughed more than I had seen him laugh in a long time. I would push it away. It would remind me that he won’t be here to walk me down the aisle at my wedding. I would push it away. I didn’t want to face it so I chose not to think about it at all. The trouble is, all that pushing is tiring... and I was exhausted. I finally had no choice but to give in. I had to turn around and let myself grieve.

That’s when I learned that Grief is not an enemy.

I’ll never see my dad again. I’ll never hear his voice, his laugh, or the trademark way he cleared his throat. I’ll never watch him take his glasses off to peer at something small. I’ll never find him watching baseball, setting up army men, or blasting music into his headphones so loud I can hear it from the kitchen. I can barely breathe sometimes from how much it hurts. But I’ve come to realize my pain isn’t for nothing. My pain is how I know that my Grief stemmed from great love. It has served as a reminder; sometimes of bad things and regrets, but also of wonderful things and cherished memories. It has helped me learn from my past mistakes. It has helped me grow as a person. It has made me more compassionate and considerate. It has motivated me to love better. And more than anything, Grief has taught me not to take this precious gift of life for granted because you never know when “never again” will come.

We have made amends (for the most part) and now I carry Grief in a small pocket near my heart. When the ache of missing my dad starts to grow, I let it out, look at it, allow myself to feel everything I need to feel. Sometimes I feel so deeply that I can’t stand it. But I know that’s just something I have to embrace. Grief doesn’t have to overshadow my life or dictate everything I do, but it can’t just be gotten over or ignored; my Grief is a part of me that will never go away. Contrary to what I believed when this journey began, I know now that Grief is not a nightmare cloud or an enemy on the attack. Grief is the manifestation of love and an ever-present reminder to neverstop caring.