Falling Off

In 2006, the family went on a cruise to Mexico. There were a few stops along the way, and one of the things my Dad and I did together was parasailing and then we rented a jet ski after and rode out. My Dad was driving and I sat behind him, listening to him laugh with complete joy as we went over the wakes of others, as he pushed the machine faster, as we bounced and got sprayed and, again, joyous laughter from us both.

At one point he stopped the jet ski, and asked me over his shoulder if I was ready for it to go as fast as it could. There was nothing but open water. We could see the shore, boats were around, but no one would be in our way. I nodded, and he turned the handle to accelerate.

I held on tight, closed my eyes, laughed, got sprayed, and eventually got bounced right off the jet ski. He turned around to get me but in trying to get me up, he fell off of it himself. Together we struggled a good 20 minutes to get back onto that machine, still smiling but getting tired. Finally the owner of the place we rented it from came out. He got my Dad on the jet ski, put me on the boat, and back to the shore we went.

By the time we got back on the cruise ship, we were both exhausted. No blame, no unhappiness, just 'damn, that ending was harsh'. Pretty certain we both napped for a few hours before dinner.

I don't know that either of us ever told anyone how much we both struggled that afternoon just trying to get back on the jet ski. I think I blamed the sun for my exhaustion (a valid excuse), but I didn't want to ruin the rest of the fun we had by telling people about the less-than-stellar ending. The three hours we had together on the ocean was the part to be remembered, it was what mattered, it was where the joy was. The end was just... harder than we expected, and it meant it was time to pack it in.

I have told a few people about the last few days with my Dad, but in general I haven't gone into any great detail. It's unnecessary. It may diminish the other 40-plus years somehow, in other people's minds. They might remember this 'harsh ending', whereas I want to remember all the fun stuff, the things that are worth remembering. It's not that the ending isn't to be discussed, endings are important after all, but it is so very far from the whole story.

That jet ski ending doesn't capture a day that included bartering on the streets, or grabbing a pineapple smoothie, or being dipped in the water while parasailing, or laying out on the beach, or feeling the spray of the water as we went faster and faster on the jet ski, or hearing the truest joyous laugh for a solid thirty minutes. The end doesn't capture all of it, it just describes the briefest part of an event. And it certainly doesn't capture all the fun that was had.

Grief Is Natural... In A Group

Upworthy recently put this story up about grief in the animal kingdom. As I read through it, I kept coming back to how there were groups of animals mourning. It was not just one individual mourning for another and then moving on solo, the animals generally have a herd or a flock or a pod to move forward with.

When we have the wake or the memorial or the funeral or the ash-spreading or whatever we do... We tend to do that as a group. There is community, there is family, there is someone to hold you up and vice versa in those tremendous moments of loss. But then life goes back to how it was (sort of). Our society has changed so much that we don't live together or even near each other anymore, so if we're not processing our lives together, I suppose we can't be expected to process our deaths together either.

This means that we individually process our grief. There may be phone calls and visits with friends that include tears, but for the most part it does seem that our true grief is alone, in quiet moments, in too early hours, in songs played on the radio. No one can speed that process up, nor should they, but when you do it alone over and over and over, it starts to become part of your own narrative.

Currently I'm living in this place of grief. There are other things happening in my life, but I know that conversations continually come back to my Dad right now, because that is what I am working on. But no one else in my current bubble is in it with me. They can honor it and listen to it and be with me through it, and I am grateful grateful grateful for that. But the mourning has been primarily on my own. I don't know if that would be true if I was with family during this time. Perhaps I would speak more to them about the mourning and the missing and the grieving parts and that would allow me to speak to my friends about other things because I wouldn't be looking for a social outlet for my grief, for a community to support me in it. Family would be that community. Family needs to be that support. We have each other, we need to be able to get through the grief together as well.

The Little Things

My Dad liked accessories. Cufflinks, rings, watches, tie clips, etc. One of the things that happened when he died was that I was the one that took off his last remaining piece of jewelry. The rest had been removed over time due to medical procedures or just by virtue of things no longer fitting correctly. But after he died, he still had this one ring on. I took it off of him, and because he always wore it, there was no 'place' for it.

I have worn it ever since.

These trinkets, these little things, he had quite a few of them. Slowly some of them are finding new homes. Some people really want these mementos, some people know they are just things, and there's the in between, like me, where I know he's not in the ring, but it still means something. It triggers memories (good ones), and it does make me feel closer to him in a way.

All of these mementos do seem to matter in the end. Things that I didn't really think about while on his person, but they strike up vivid memories of him when I look down and see something so simple as a ring, a watch, in my possession. It's reminder that he is no longer here, and yet always here, all at once.

The little things become the big things, because they have become the only things. Except for the memories... and the little things that keep the memories alive, I want to keep those close to me.

The Wisdom of Elders

I delved a little bit into triggers, but there's one thing that I've been actively avoiding, and that is the memorial DVD of my Dad. It's not even the pictures so much as the music, because it reminds me so intensely of those last days, of watching both my parents say goodbye in their way.

My heart broke for my Mom as much as it broke for me, and that's something we don't really talk about in the world of adult child grief. There's the surviving parent that you want to protect and help and comfort, all while going through your own process of losing a parent. This is when being a plane ride away has been the absolute hardest.

We talk often, my Mom and I, and I am very grateful for the relationship that we have. If anything, this experience has brought us closer. But now I find myself missing her more than I ever did. Like she's so near and so far away. And in that, I feel very helpless. Helpless to help her, and helpless in letting her help me with her wisdom of how to deal with this. She has had the experience of losing a parent (parents), and I think her wisdom could be invaluable. But I am still protective of her, and as she has pointed out, maybe I do hold back in processing with her.

When we separate ourselves from our elders, family or otherwise, we separate ourselves from the wisdom that they have to offer. And when they are gone, the wisdom leaves with them, whatever has not been passed on already.

I am thankful that my Dad was full of wisdom and, because he chose his moments, when he did share wisdom we all listened intently. Now, with one parent remaining, I find myself wanting to be near here not only for the reason of being near her (because she's awesome), but to get that wisdom laid on me as well. I don't want to miss anything.

Please Talk About Him

There's this weird phenomena that keeps happening in my world and that is... People don't like to talk about my Dad with me. Or, when I bring up an anecdote about him, they get this sad look on their face.

I'm really hoping this goes away in time, but I fear it won't.

I had 40-plus years with him as a foundation of my life. Someone to talk to, lean on, laugh with, tease, make jokes with, share experiences with. Those 40 years did not disappear when he died. Actually, they've become even more important for me to share because it's my way of keeping his spirit alive. I fear things like forgetting his voice or his laugh, so I find myself actively bringing up memories or stories probably even more than I used to, for my own benefit. I need the people in my world to be a part of that, to let me share and to laugh or remember with me.

Gone most definitely does not mean forgotten.

Being one of the first of my friends to go through this experience, losing a parent at a reasonably 'expected' age, has been a bit of a challenge. The ones I do know that have lost a parent, it happened decades ago, and their grief is slightly different because they were younger when they experienced it. They have also very much gotten used to life without that parent as a presence. I am grateful that I have the support of my close friends, but acquaintances really have no idea what to say or do when he is mentioned, or they inadvertently mention their own father and then have the reminder that mine is no longer with me.

Part of my process has been to talk about him with whomever, whenever it's appropriate. I'm not randomly forcing him into conversation, but if it's relevant, I have no qualms about sharing him with others. And that look that crosses their faces, the obvious discomfort, it makes me think that I should stop sharing. But I can't, and I won't.

The experience of loss is something that every single one of us will feel at some point, and one of the ways that I have found to get through it for myself, to not feel it as this intense hole in my heart, is to still talk about him. I'm sure people fear saying 'the wrong thing', but that ends up in action being that they don't say anything at all, or they steer the conversation away from topics that might include mention of loss or death or fathers. I ask that if you have someone close to you experiencing loss, let them talk about their loved one. Let them share that person with you. It may very well be the way that they are keeping that person alive in their hearts. Ask questions about their life. Share your own anecdotes about your loved ones, alive or dead. Keep connecting in that way, because it helps me stay connected as well.

Triggers

I am ill-prepared for the things that will set me off mentally to thinking about my Dad no longer being with us. Initially I thought that the ring of his that I now wear would be a trigger, but it's become something that is a reminder of his life and who he was. It does not make me sad or drop me into that place of missing him so much. Pictures are the same. They are around the house, I say hello to him every morning and every night, but again, it's a reminder of his life. It makes me feel more like everything is 'normal', that before place. I don't dwell on missing him, or his absence.

But then some song will come on the radio that reminds me of him, or of his relationship with my Mom, or some random thing that has nothing really to do with him, and I'm thrown immediately into a funk, into that place of acute missing. I wish I could identify what those triggers are so I could either a) put myself into immersion therapy or b) avoid them all entirely.

As a surviving family member, we have to find ways to carry on with our lives, but those triggers act almost as hidden traps. It is so easy to get lost in them when one shows up, and to let ourselves live in the past when everything was as I thought it should be. I don't actually know that it's a bad thing to let myself feel the loss acutely, but I know that it still takes my breath away and stops me in my tracks. He is not a phone call or plane ride away anymore. This thought most recently triggered by my new-to-me car having the same fake leather kind of wheel as the car he taught me how to drive on did.

A steering wheel left me sitting in a parking lot for ten minutes before I felt I was actually in control of myself enough to drive again.

This is part of the process. When those items or songs or events cause me to take a breath and be hit over the head with the knowledge, yet again, that my Dad is no longer with us, I sit in it and give myself permission to grieve. I also give myself permission to take the space to think about that trigger and use it to bring forward a happy memory, the reason the trigger might have existed in the first place. I give myself permission to let a heart-wrenching moment turn into a fond and grateful reliving of experience and memory.

So I suppose neither immersion or avoidance is my plan of attack. I will accept these triggers as they come as reminders of how lucky I am to have had a father that was so loving and kind that his absence is palpable to me. I will use these triggers as a reason to be grateful in my sadness.

Expected But Never Desired

Truth be told, I am fortunate that I had nearly 41 years with my Dad in my life. I absolutely recognize that I am one of the lucky ones, that my Dad was there nearly every day for the first 17 years, and was only a phone call away the remainder of the time. There were trips and talks and memories, so many memories. And as a family we had end of life talks while people were of sound mind and body, because that is what responsible people do. Death has never been scary or not to be discussed, but even in that, it's still not something that anyone is actively rooting for.

As an adult of about 30-plus, you do start to come to grips with mortality, including that of your parents. And to be honest, if you hit 30, and your parents are around 60, you think 'hey, I can probably accept this... I'm a grown-up, they've done their job, I'm doing mine'. You do find ways to expect this particular outcome. At some point.

What I was ill-prepared for was the reality of it. The concerned phone calls from my family. The need to get on a plane as quickly as possible because there's something unknown but decidedly bad happening. More phone calls. The lack of pictures. The fast decline. The realization that the last time I heard my Dad's voice, I didn't know it was going to be the last time.

Expected. But never desired.

I wept multiple times when the reality of no cures, no surgeries, nothing short of miracles changing the outcome... when those hit me, that was the first series of waves. Wondering if I would be able to catch whatever the last flight out was, hoping that he would wait for me to see him. Hoping that he would recognize me in his way.

He did, even at 1am, both of us bleary-eyed him and him no longer speaking. There was recognition. I am so very grateful for that, for those last few days where I know he knew me, where there was no doubt that he knew my Mom. My Dad has always had the kindest eyes, and they spoke volumes when his voice no longer did.

I am one of the lucky ones. I had the ability to catch the flight, see him again, and even say 'see you later' (because goodbye never crossed my mind). I held his hand while he took his last breath, a last breath that we expected for nearly twelve hours. Expected, but never ever desired.

Nothing prepares you for that. Even when it is expected. But in my wildest moments, it was never ever ever desired.