Finding balance in a time of grief
I said I wasn’t going to write about my dad for a while; I was going into 2023 with a fresh outlook on life. I was going to write about more interesting, less depressing topics. I’ve written notes to begin stories on things like the time I had a panic attack in the middle of a half Ironman; the time I ran out of my roommate’s house in pure fear at 4 am in a foreign country. The stories were going to be sexy, intriguing, and funny. They wouldn’t have the same life lessons and self-reflections as my other stories though, so I wasn’t sure they would be as good. And when I write something, I want it to take people’s breath away. Alas, I was unmotivated, and I never got past the notes stage. That changed today. Brace yourself for another tour into the whirlwind of my soul.
It’s now been a little over two months since my dad died and I thought I was doing well, all things considered. I’ve been working hard, eating well, and having fun. At the same time, some new opportunities (and also some minor struggles) began to show up in my life. And for no reason whatsoever, I suddenly felt stricken by sadness. I thought to myself, “Why? This is really good stuff; you’re doing what you need to move on and to be your best self, in all aspects of your life.”
I’ve been going to therapy and my therapist keeps saying there’s nothing wrong with me, but then it occurs to me that maybe she isn’t digging deep enough; maybe I should do some digging myself. I wrote some notes in my journal and on my phone, and I reflected. And I realized, many layers deep, that I’m not “over” the grief of my dad’s passing. Well, duh. Anyone with a brain could have told me that, but somehow, I missed it. I had some weird interactions at his funeral where people said things like, “It never really gets better, just different.” And I’m like yeah okay, that’s super helpful — not. Well, turns out that maybe I should’ve heeded their clunky, well-intentioned advice a little more.
I had a big day ahead of me yesterday, but I was feeling off. Physically ill, with chest congestion. I wanted to cancel my morning appointments and stay home, but I also knew if I deviated from my routine, it would throw everything off. So, I went forward with the day’s plans. First stop: the chiropractor.
Now, every time I’m at the chiropractor — which is twice a week, and you may recall my obsessive self-care measures from an earlier story — I have to do some exercises. This basically involves me lying on my back and staring at the ceiling while the device puts my body in the correct alignment. It lasts about 20 minutes. Each time, I look up at the awful 80s office-style ceiling tiles. I listen to the accompanying 80s music, which sometimes isn’t so bad. And more often than not, the tears start rolling. I figure it’s some combination of tension release and the fact that I’m forced to stare up at nothing. There’s nothing to do with my hands, nothing interesting to look at, no one to talk to. So, I reflect. My dad comes to mind a lot.
This day wasn’t any different. I got settled in the position, stared up at those awful off-white tiles, and flashed back to the hospital. This time, I had been appointed my dad’s scribe, to write goodbye letters to his best friends as he dictated them to me from his hospital bed. He had been asking me to help him do that for a couple of days, and I had been selfishly avoiding it. It seemed too real, and surely he wouldn’t want me to hear his intimate goodbye letters to his closest friends, many of whom he knew even before I was born. Would our relationship change if I knew more about his deepest feelings and then he made it out of here alive? Either way, he insisted. He trusted me, and we were a team. I obliged but was completely taken off guard when he started speaking and began to tear up. I couldn’t do anything other than type what he was saying; I couldn’t miss these precious words. But my father was scared to die and this task I was being asked to do was unimaginable. It was the first time I’d ever seen him cry, and I went over to console him. I was likely terrible at it; I had a huge emotional wall up. If I had shown my true emotions in that moment, I would have been a puddle on the floor. Instead, I had to keep it together; assure him that whatever he wanted me to do, I would do, and however he wanted me to act, I would act. After all, I always wanted to make him proud.
Back at the chiropractor, I reflected on this, searching for shapes in the ceiling tiles. I don’t even have words other than “sad” for these feelings at this point; it’s not sophisticated, it’s not painfully beautiful, or anything of the sort. It’s just plain sad. So, I allow myself to quietly cry about it for 20 minutes twice a week––today included––until the timer goes off and it’s time for me to get up. And then I button up my emotions and get on with my life. I have things to do, goals to reach, decisions to make.
Over the past couple of days though, I hadn’t been making the best decisions. I received a grief email; I deleted it. I didn’t need that. Mom sent me a couple of voice messages and started to get emotional; I bluntly asked her why she is always crying. “You have to find the good things in life, Mom, it’ll be fine.” My words were shallow; I didn’t even attempt to have an actual conversation with her about her emotions… much less mine. I have things to do, goals to reach, decisions to make.
I think about texting my brother; I forget. Someone asks me if I’ve talked to him lately. No, that’s his problem; it’s a two-way street and I talked last. I have things to do, goals to reach, decisions to make.
My friends were great about reaching out at first, but I legitimately felt fine, so they assumed the same and stopped asking. And now that I don’t have that support, I’m feeling salty about it. “Why aren’t they here?” I ask. “I need my friends; I need my family.” Well, duh, they’re not there because I never asked for help. In fact, I did the opposite. I said I was fine and changed the subject to some other irrelevant issue I was having. I think the train of thought went something like, “That dad problem has been solved, but THIS new problem is more interesting. Let’s talk about that.” Block; deflect; ignore. I have things to do, goals to reach, decisions to make.
I’m always saying to myself, “Oh hey, what’s that? A roadblock? No. Ignore it. It’s not there; jump over it, go around it. You’re a problem-solver; fix it. Your mom left you a grief book to read? *eye roll* — she needs that; not you. You’re fine. Look at yourself! You. Are. Fine.” But this day wasn’t destined to be like all the rest. I came home from the chiropractor, did what I needed to do, and when I finished, I became a lump on the couch for the rest of the day. I didn’t feel good; I felt weak and vulnerable. And I’m like, “WHAT is this? Stop it; go on with your goals, and you’ll get over it.” I have things to do, goals to reach, decisions to make. But this time, I couldn’t reach, do, or make…
You see, that was my truth up until very recently. I could always find motivation in making my parents proud. Particularly my dad; he wasn’t hard on me, but he was a tough critic and difficult to impress. I had worked my whole life for his approval, and now, as I was trying to reach my next big goal, I realized I didn’t have his approval. I would never again have his approval. And then I finally realized just how close I was to breaking down, apparently this entire time, unbeknownst to me.
That night, I watched my favorite movie to make me feel better, but I had forgotten there was a scene in it about signing a do-not-resuscitate (DNR) agreement. I again flashed back to the hospital, on the night when we were transported from the ER to the cancer wing. The sweet nurse, Amanda, explained how this was a non-monitoring unit (i.e., you’re not permanently attached to any of the monitors that make sure you’re still alive). She said to my dad, as she was adjusting his head on the pillow, “We have your DNR agreement on file. I need your verbal confirmation here. If anything were to happen, do you want us to save you?” He was delusional that night and would be in and out of consciousness for the next full week. I had no idea what he was going to say but it was his decision, so I just quietly listened and hoped for the best. And he said, clear as day, “Well, there’s still hope, right? If there’s still hope, I want you to save me.” She smiled and agreed, and left me with my mouth wide open. I diverted my glance to her. She said, “Do you need anything to eat, sweetie? We have lunch boxes with turkey sandwiches.” I initially said no; it was past midnight. But upon remembering that ever since his covid test had come back positive six hours ago, I’d been stuck inside an ER room, unable to leave, not even to go to the bathroom. I should probably take her up on her offer. If anything, I’d eat it for breakfast. I should also probably go pee…
My attention focused back on my favorite movie. It had lost its charm in this moment, though. This movie had a happy ending; my story did not.
I haven’t understood how most of the time I can be fine, but other times I will just totally break. Sure, grief comes in random waves, but no waves had come for a while. I was doing fine. I didn’t get that I would be fine until I wasn’t. Grief does not have a finish line that I can reach; it’s not something I can get over or complete. Instead, it feels like a really large rock that’s been placed on my chest and I have to learn how to work around it. I literally cannot work through it; it will always be there. I’m going to have to completely contort and mold myself around this newfound pain; the flashbacks of my dad’s insecurity of death; my mouth still open at the depth and gravity of this pain I avoid.
I said I had chest congestion, and I think it’s partially true. But that’s a really random thing to just get out of nowhere, with no other sustained symptoms. So (stay with me here), I think more than chest congestion, what I’m feeling is this rock. And I know this because I can personally confirm that I can manifest my own sickness. No, I’m not crazy…per se. But my emotional pain does manifest itself as physical illness. Not just the usual headache or stomach pain, but legitimate fevers and full-on flu-like symptoms. All you doctors out there can say I’m wrong; whatever. All I know is this is how I feel and it’s not good!
I understand my body and have good self-awareness, and the next day I know I need to get out of this rut. The night has passed, and I’m currently on the treadmill, alternating between walking and typing this essay on my phone, and running and struggling to breathe. I don’t usually alternate running and walking, but remember, I’m “sick.” I tell myself that if I can get through this run and keep breathing, it’ll be a good day.
It’s also unintentionally poetic because my brother and I have signed up to run a half marathon in March, the day before we will spread my dad’s ashes. It’s still a ways away, but I’ve got plenty of prepping to do before then. I just finished four miles; my heart rate is low and I don’t feel it in my muscles, but my chest is absolutely on fire. I either need a Mucinex or a psychological intervention. And Mucinex makes my brain foggy, so I’ll go with the latter.
I legitimately do not have time for this though. Remember? I have work to do, goals to reach, decisions to make.
Now I’m taking turns weight training and writing more of this essay. I have to make up for yesterday when I did nothing. I cannot stop. But the content that I’m writing upsets me, so I’m a little teary, and I’ve now added another element to the mix: I don’t know if I’m suffocating from my tears, my mucus, or that giant damn rock! Any way, I’m extremely uncomfortable. But let’s go; turn the music up. I have things to do, goals to reach, decisions to make.
But finally, finally, finally, I begin to understand:
WHAT THE HELL DO MY THINGS, GOALS, AND DECISIONS MATTER ANYWAY?!
I calm down and say to myself, “You’re being insane. You are sad, and that’s okay. Feel it, breathe it, accept it.” There may not be a finish line to cross, but I think that’s for the best. I would never want to be “finished” loving my dad anyways. A friend reminded me that even if I can’t see it, my dad is still watching over me and remains very proud of me. And I imagine my dad also remains a tough critic — so I’d better get rid of this cough if I want to keep making him proud. After all, I have things to do, goals to reach, and decisions to make.