Had this month not been the 20th anniversary of my dad’s death, I probably would have chosen an easier topic than “Death” to start my “12 Themes, 12 Months” writing project with, especially in light of my not having written much beyond a text or a Facebook status for 15+ years. But as we come to the end of January, I’m glad I chose this topic, both as a way to get back into writing and because I think existing in this headspace and heartspace for a few weeks helped me process some stuff I’d been stubbornly clinging to for the past 20 years. It was a good combination of writing as therapy, but also as a way to rip the BandAid off and getting back into the swing of writing.
I have some final thoughts I want to get out of the way before I start thinking about next month’s theme (going to be a fun one, stay tuned). I strongly dislike stuff that’s like “here’s what you need to know about grief” or “the ten things you should know about grief.” The truth of the matter is that grief is a complex emotion (more of an action, really) that will be fueled and fed by the heart, mind, and soul of the person who grieves. It feels very presumptuous and patronizing to sit here and be like “hey… my dad died 20 years ago, here’s how you should grieve.” Fuck that noise. But what I can do is write from my perspective. Here are some things I’ve learned along the way.
In the immediate aftermath of death…
Ground control to Major Tom… Grief made me feel like I was a space alien or a different species from everyone going on about their lives around me. I was one person the morning of January 28, 2003, another person entirely at the end of it. Some great tragedy had just befallen me and all I could think about 24/7 (for weeks) was my dad’s death, my dad’s life, and the big gaping absence I felt with him no longer around. Seeing the world just go on around me as if everything was just normal (which it 100% was and 100% should have been) made me feel isolated, alone, and lonely (“alone” and “lonely” are two different things). I was feeling such intense feelings, it was disorienting to think that people just couldn’t grasp what it was like to be me at that given time. I wanted to grab people (proverbially) by the shoulders and just bend society to my will so that everyone knew exactly what I was going through. I didn’t do this, obviously. Maybe should have tried doing more of that very thing so that I didn’t feel so “I’m on my own” as I grieved. I don’t know. We really need to figure out a way to make grieving more of a communal experience.
The other’ness I felt, combined with how outwardly emotional I’d get when I’d think about his death, made me feel like I was living in a protective bubble I had constructed for myself. Because no one really understood what I was going through, I needed this protective bubble so that I could do mundane stuff like buy groceries or attend class without breaking down. In hindsight, it’s obvious now that I should have built a more penetrable protective bubble, as impenetrable bubbles allow for scar tissue to form more easily around your emotions. I don’t know… maybe I should be more kind to my younger self. With the tools I had at 25 years old, I did the best I could.
I remember my immediate grief as being clumsy and unpredictable. I’d be fine fine fine fine fine and then WHAMMO! the grief would come back from out of nowhere. Anne and I saw Tim Burton’s Big Fish a couple months after my dad died. The main character in that movie and my dad shared many similarities, especially in the telling big fish style stories to make normal life seem more interesting. I didn’t know that going into the theater and was emotionally devastated by the end of the movie. I remember people getting up as the credits rolled and were not really blown away by the movie while I was literally just gripping the armrest of the seat, sobbing uncontrollably. …a kind of uncontrollable sobbing that I had not done a ton of in the few weeks before and thought maybe I was finally done with. Or there’d be times where I’d think I’d see my dad somewhere and when that split second was over and I remembered that I’d never just randomly see my dad again, I’d be kind of blue for the rest of the day.
One of the most important lessons my mom ever taught me was “it’s okay to not be okay.” And that is never more true, for me, than in the immediate aftermath of my dad’s death. Some tragic thing had just happened to me. Society continued on the moment my dad died. It continued on as I wept and it continued on as I grieved. I realized early that it will continue on if I need to take a moment, either in front of other people or off on my own by myself. The world’s not going to end if I take this moment. It really is okay to not be okay. I would add, though, that it’s also okay for friends, family, classmates, peers, coworkers, et al to see you not be okay, too. Grief shouldn’t be as individualized as it feels and historically has been.
Grief from a short distance…
When I started to get to the point where I was gaining a little distance from my dad’s death, it felt extra sad when I’d have a moment where it dawned on me that I hadn’t thought about him in a while. The “moving on” experience might be my least favorite part of the grieving experience as I think it requires more mental and spiritual gymnastics work than some of the other stages of grief, which almost feel more physical or reactive in comparison. My body, heart, and soul were like “we need to move on, we have living to do,” but those same parts were calloused or covered in scar tissue and were the only parts keeping the spirit and soul of the departed person alive and present. If I let go of that pain, I’d think, then that person is truly gone. That idea and concept still makes me a little sad, but the further I get from that thought, the easier it’s been.
I wasn’t ready to shed the protective bubble I had constructed for myself. In the spirit of “functionality,” keeping that bubble meant I was a little more closed off. When I was closed off like that, I was less likely to want to open old wounds, and only wanted to think about this experience on my own terms. In short, I was trying to control the uncontrollable and I was trying to micromanage my emtions instead of letting them flow through me more naturally. Obviously, the situation wasn’t controllable and neither were my emotions, no matter how much I tried to pretend they were.
In the earlier stages of grief, I’d often ask myself “why me,” but as time passed, I quickly transitioned that to “why not me?” I had this grand narrative of what my life was going to be and that included countless “scenes” I had constructed that would play out over the next 50+ years. I had all these ideas and schemes and thoughts about what my life was going to be like that were viciously altered one January night in 2003. I’d subconsciously tell myself that the tragedies of shortened lives was for other people to experience, not me. Everyone in my family, I’d think, would die old, wrinkled, and grey and surrounded by loved ones. How foolish I was.
There’s kind of a terror in realizing that “it can happen to anyone at any time” and as someone who is naturally prone to anxiety, it’s been hard to process that. But that “why not me” question has ultimately made me feel more connected to (as cliche as it sounds) my fellow man. Why NOT me? What makes me any better or more special than anyone else? We’re all just stardust that is fragilely and temporarily constructed on this planet and any great, mid-, or awful thing is capable of happening at any given time to anyone and everyone. That randomness used to scare me, but seeing through that “we’re all the same” veil has made me appreciate the moment a little bit more fully. It can go away and nothing cosmically is really in our control, so appreciate what you have in this moment.
From a great distance:
I’ve learned that my emotional pain tolerance is high. I think this is both a good and bad thing. On the more negative side of that pain tolerance; I’ve utilized the extended warranty on my protective bubble and have started to use it on other things in my life. It’s hard for me to want to let people in too fully. It’s hard for me to fully express the wide spectrums of emotions I have going on within me at any given time. Sometimes that very bubble means I overshare on stuff, as if my subconscious is gasping for air. I too often defer to humor and making sure everyone is okay, even when I’m sometimes … not. But one thing I’ve noticed this month is it feels like I’m beginning to take that bubble down a little more deliberately. It’s been really good talking (or writing, as it were) about these thoughts I’ve been keeping under lock and key for years.
I’ve only started recently chipping away at that bubble, but I sometimes worry that the parts of me that are held together are done so with duct tape instead of reinforced steel. But on the more positive side of things, I’ve also learned that “if I can survive this, I can survive anything.” I know from my Marine Corps days that that “if I can survive this” understanding can pay off so handsomely in so many other situations. My grief didn’t kill me. I came through it all on the other end with a lot of life lessons and skills that will serve me for the rest of my life.
But the most important think I’ve discovered is that grief is stubbornly and unbreakably tethered to love; either the love you received or the love you didn’t. Looking back 2o years on, I am 100% certain of that fact. I grieved my dad so hard because I loved my dad equally as hard. And as Vision so perfectly (and logically, per the character) asked in Disney+’s WandaVision, “What is grief if not love persevering?”
I’m not a Buddhist (I jokingly refer to myself as “Buddhish” or as “enLITEned”), but it is the religion that most closely and accurately lines up with my outlook on life and the afterlife. One of the core tenets of Buddhism is that suffering and hardship are universal human conditions. If you live, you will suffer. And while that idea of “suffering” can be relatively complex in Buddhism, how it applies (to me) in the grieving process is that if suffering is a universal human condition and if it’s 100% a gift to have even existed at all, then maybe this horrible awful “drop you to your knees in agony” grief is also a gift as well. Like I said above, grief is tethered to love. I grieved hard partly because I loved hard. I should pat myself on the back a little here. I’m life’ing correctly. My dad was not perfect and our father-son relationship was at times both beautiful and stubbornly frustrating. But the love was always there and I think that’s the thing I’m carrying out of this month. A heart that hurts is a heart that works. Amen to that.
Now it’s on to February where we’re talking about “Dogs and Cats.” Should be fun. Stay tuned.
An open and shut book 
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