Grief

I’ve read that there are five to seven stages of grief. In my life, it’s felt like three: The Cover Up, The Overindulgence, and The I’ve Got it Together Now. Sometimes I wonder if I wasn’t correctly equipped for grief because the way I’ve dealt with the loss of my father has always felt like I’m tipping the scales too far in one emotional direction.

Why is grief on my mind today? Frankly, I’m not entirely certain. It probably has a bit to do with talking about my experience with depression in a recent post and the old diary entries I read while writing it. I started thinking about the stack of poems I’ve kept from my teenager years raw with emotion. While reorganizing awhile back, I came across them and couldn’t bear to read through them all. While pain is no longer so fresh or fierce, reading it feels like a burden. It’s a bit like picking at the edges of a scab.

I was nearly 15 by the time my father died (gosh, I always linger here. Should I bluntly put died? Is passed away better?). He’d been sick with first mysterious ailments and then cancer since I was 11. Throughout his illness, I’d already experienced so many overwhelming emotions: fear, loss, pain, grief, uncertainty. His illness caused me to mature early in some ways and my parents never made empty promises of recovery, but somehow I was completely and totally unprepared for his death.

I don’t honestly think there is any way I could have been “prepared.” Your mind will protect you; it will guard your heart. Even though I walked into that hospital room knowing this time that the tumors meant dad had a very short time to live, I was totally shocked by his death. Looking at him did solidify my faith, however, because I could so clearly see that his body no longer housed his soul. And I knew without a doubt that his soul still lived.

Having already experienced so much, I think I numbed myself in a way for the funeral. Death is not the end, so I shunned the idea of wearing black. I didn’t know what else to do following his death, so I did my best to keep it together publicly. Trying to help others deal with your grief if exhausting. One time, I tried to reach out to a classmate who’s mother, my beloved kindergarten teacher, was currently going through cancer. I thought maybe I could help him through it. I can vividly recall his rage and see him rejecting what were most likely awkward overtures. In his mind, I couldn’t help him. I was tainted. My father was not one of those hopeful cancer stories. He was dead.

What I call the emotional cover up throughout my teenage years, eventually led to depression in college, for so many complex reasons. While depression is debilitating and I would never wish it on anyone, I think I needed it (or the help if finally pushed me to get) to move on. I’d finally given myself permission in a way to feel and then felt an overload and a desire to feel nothing. I desperately needed to find an emotional balance.
During that time (I find this period of writing less painful), I wrote:
“I learned the true meaning of loneliness when Dad died. You sit in a room full of people and yet you feel more alone than you would feel if they all suddenly disappeared. Your heart aches in ways you have no abilities to outwardly express. Some things will never be shared through spoken words and cannot be comforted except by one specific touch. Loneliness is when you can reach every touch but the one you truly ache for.”
or
“Change comes,
turning green to amber.
I gaze out, admiring,
until the cold rain comes.
Damnit. Give me
the bare trees and
snows of winter.”

Today, I don’t spend much time writing about or lingering over my grief. Working through depression was probably the most difficult thing I’ve ever done in my life and I spent many of the years following it making sure I never went there again. Today, it doesn’t feel like work. I don’t fear it like I did.

Now I feel like I’m ready to talk about my dad in a new way. One that comes from who I am today. But I’m not entirely sure how. So many of the people I spend time with (including my husband and kids) never knew my dad. Where do I start? How do I talk about something so personal and so complex? He was more than cancer. His impact on my life is not all wrapped up in his death. I’m  not sure how yet, but I think it’s time to stop letting a younger me be the only one speaking about this experience. I guess this post is a start.