Working through grief
A journal from the week after
It’s been three and a half weeks since my father passed.
I feel better. The pain comes in waves, and each is a little less intense. They are, however, starting to come in from different angles.
For the past several days, it’s been that I wish I could hug the guy. Isn’t that weird? I’ve known this whole time I could no longer hug him, but now I realize I can’t.
It’s like my brain is working to let go of old realities and accept the new, thereby recreating my worldview.
One day, it’s that I can’t call him. The next, it’s that his chair is empty. Today, it’s that I can’t hug him.
I may acknowledge these things consciously, but it takes weeks, months, and years to process them subconsciously.
Plenty of things disappear in life. But the disappearance of people with whom you shared time is the strangest and most uncanny . . . The hardest to grasp, to come to terms with, to realize.
What this seems to suggest is that other people make up more of our world than anything else. They are the foundation of our reality—the rock to which we fasten our values, from which extend our actions.
Perhaps I only think this because I haven’t lost anything as significant as my father before, but what loss is more significant than that of a loved one? Is there a more important element to life? A house? A job? A car? A social media account?
Why do we pedestalize these things in lieu of those with whom we share this beautiful and incredibly astounding experience? Why did it take so tragic an event to wake me up?
I assure you: your world would be far more different without the people you most love than without the prestigious career you worked so hard for.
That’s not to say we shouldn’t engage in the more superficial pursuits, nor that we mustn’t give what is truly a sizeable portion of our time to them (the bills must be paid), but that it’s foolish to give such weight to them . . . To habitually prioritize another dollar over time spent with your parents, or kids, or friends.
You can always make another dollar, and while, I suppose, you can always make another kid, it takes a little bit longer, it’s a lot harder, and, most importantly, it’s far less painful to lose money.
I still feel like he’s here. Perhaps I’ll never feel like he’s gone. He will always, quite literally, be with me, at the very least, as part of what made me who I am—my DNA, my memories, and my character. But I think he’s here in another, more profound and spiritual way.
And I have evidence, which I’ll share in an upcoming letter. So stay tuned.
Four days after (9/3)
I don’t know what to write about right now. I want to work on a piece that I’ve got in the chamber, but, I mean, my dad just died, and I can’t help but feel like I’d be overlooking a big fat elephant if I were to not write about it.
I want to move forward, but I cannot.
These past few days have been surreal. Today is my fourth without a living father. I feel a lot better, though. I’ve been talking to him. Or at least hoping he’s listening.
I find myself traversing a variety of thoughts and feelings. If only this. If I had just that. Why didn’t I hug him a little harder, a little longer? Why didn’t I watch a movie with him that one time? Why wasn’t I more patient?
I really did try a lot. But I know I could have done more. And I don’t think it; I know it. I could have. We all could have. Him included. But that’s just how life goes. It’s hard to say, but it’s the truth. Everyone could always do better, and they could always do worse. I don’t know how else to contend with this fact. I’ve just been trying to accept it.
It’s impossible not to neglect certain things; a day only has 24 hours.
Nothing would have woken me up. I mean, perhaps if he had some sort of dance with death and survived, I might have realized the finitude of life. But, more than likely, if he were here today, I would still be asleep. I would still have taken him for granted.
In this way, his passing blessed me with an appreciation I could not have otherwise had. Both for him and for life. But why couldn’t I have had it while he was still here? Must something always be cut away for us to see more clearly? Why can we only know how great something is when we are without it? Is this the curse of parenthood? To be underappreciated until your last breath?
He gave so much. That’s all he did. He was a giver. He wanted the best for us. He did everything he knew how to do to try and help us. I did not see until now how valuable his presence was . . . How much I actually learned.
Father and son have a particular sort of relationship. There is always love, but there must also be friction because the world is not such a peaceful place. Only now do I see how well he did his job.
I tried a lot. I really did. I tried to be patient, and to get him to take care of his health, and to love him as much as I could, and to do things with him. But how do I contend with the fact that—hindsight 20-20—if I could, I would have hugged him harder, and laughed more with him, and let go of the past that was holding us back from the present, and gone golfing with him, and watched those stupid black and white movies he so deeply loved? How do I contend with the fact that I opted to do certain things, things that didn’t matter so much, in lieu of spending time with my father? If only. How differently I would have lived. Was all this time away from home worth it?
I feel like I’m trying to work through every bad memory I have with him and forgive myself. I feel like I’m trying to recall as much of the good stuff and leave as much of the bad stuff where it was. Oh man. If only I could have shown him, he was more loved. He knew he was. He knew we loved him.
I’m grateful for his spirit. He was a golden retriever. He never held on to anything. He never stayed mad. He always wanted the best for us.
And while it hurts to think about the times that weren’t all sunshine and rainbows, not only did they not affect him, but they do not compose the majority of the portrait.
Sure, I wish there were things I would have done with him more, but that must be the case for any child. We all fall into our ways. We all sit on the couch instead of doing things with people we love. No matter when it happens or to whom, death will always leave open some doors we’d rather have shut . . . Or walked through, or made peace with. Or said sorry for.
We did have so many good times together. Especially when we were young. And even recently.
We used to play football all the time in the basement. I feel bad because I had no mercy, despite my elderly advantage, on my little brother. My father and I used to go fishing together every week. He supported my athletic endeavors. He supported my writing, even though I got so frustrated he kept telling me to get a job. I got to ski with my father. Not everyone gets to ski with their father. I got to go all over the country with him. We went on cruises. We went to beaches. We went on boats. We flew on planes. We went jetskiing. We did so much. More than I can say. He was always there for me, and I for him. Even though he didn’t need me in the way I needed him. We were there for each other. Always. All four of us were. No matter how angry we got with each other, no matter how much we thought we wanted nothing to do with the other, we were always there. We never gave up. We never left.
And we had so many laughs. So many good times. We were truly blessed. My father was always there for me. Perhaps that is why I took him for granted sometimes. Perhaps, then, it is a sign of good we take people for granted. Perhaps it just means that we are with them.
This is so painful to write. But I must push forward.
I want more, now, to think of all the good times. When I played rec league, he would take egg shells off a hard-boiled egg and sprinkle them across the goal line for good luck. We would always get dunkin donuts after games (was it before?). I had a panic attack when I was a kid one time . . . I was worrying about dying (lol). And he held me in his arms. He was there for me. And I felt better. He would always tell us bedtime stories. We learned a lot about him and his childhood and his times in college. He must have known it was good to share himself with us. He must have known we’d regret not knowing him. Boy did we know him. I thought he was being selfish, but he was just being there for me in the only way he knew how. He came from a walk of life where people just shared themselves. Nobody had to ask, nobody needed permission. They just did it.
And he just thought, naturally, that I had nothing to share.
Still, he would always ask, every single time we spoke, if there was anything he could do to help me. And I always said no. And then we’d said something like, “Okay, I’m goin’ to bed. Love you.” Every time. Even if it was just a trip to the grocery store. “Love you.”
I have so much more to write, but I’ve got to do this in bite sized chunks. I’m hurting. I can’t keep going. To be continued some time.