The capriciousness of grief

The five stages of grief are not always linear, equally proportionate, or even experienced

Photo by K. Mitch Hodge on Unsplash

The first face I saw when waking up from post-surgery anesthesia was always my dad’s face. If I needed a ride, a shoulder to cry on, or even some money, he was there for me. He even took me on secret runs to McDonald’s to sneak in French fries, sponsored all of my sports teams, and had me help him with his business.

When it came to self-care, though, he was a stubborn man — especially after my mom died. He just wasn’t the same person and, as time went on, he seemed increasingly resigned to meeting his maker. So, I prepared for it too. It was only a matter of time.

Every time I saw my stepmother’s name pop up on caller ID or a text message, I felt sick. I was nervous he’d passed. There were far too many calls letting us know he was in urgent care or the ER. It wasn’t that he was sick; he just let things unfold.

The man shot out gallstones like a BB gun, but never changed his diet. His mobility vanished because he refused to be mobile. Diabetes plagued him. He wouldn’t drink water because he said it made him gag. Instead, he drank club soda (or just soda). If you heard what they call a productive cough, it was probably him.

Most of the calls I got from my stepmother were unrelated. She might’ve had trouble with her computer or phone. I was always happy to help and quite relieved that the call didn’t bring devastating news. It also helped me build up a bit of a tolerance. Each call became slightly easier to answer than the last. Then, the inevitable happened.

Last week, she called me. She was in tears. The paramedics were working on him and he wasn’t breathing. He had already passed, but nobody was ready to use those words. So she said it wasn’t good.

The paramedics tried their damnedest, but couldn’t get a pulse. They said he looked peaceful, but I couldn’t look at his face. I didn’t want to remember him the same way I remember my mom. I want to remember him as jovial and joyous, as a lighthearted goofball who was filled with love.

Ironically, none of those ailments were to blame. From what we know, it was an abdominal aortic aneurysm. I feel at peace knowing that. My mom battled cancer for the better part of a decade and it ravaged her. She was nothing but skin, bones, and a vacant gaze at the end. She was not there, barely human.

My dad talked about death all the time in recent years. Sometimes, his comments were absurd like, “I’m next. You might as well just take me out with the trash.” Other times, it was morbid and bleak. No need to share those examples.

It took decades to come to terms with my mother’s death. Of course, it was more complex; I was significantly younger, and there were lots of unresolved issues. I cried for hours at a time and felt unable to breathe. There have been times when I’ve cried about my father’s death, but not at great length yet, and not in random places like a supermarket or on an airplane.

The grief still kicks in at unexpected times or on behalf of another situation. My daughter’s classmate passed and I felt gutted. A situation in a TV show might make me weepy. It’s because I have not let myself grieve the absurd amount of trauma and tragedies that have occurred to me or my family throughout this decade. My siblings pointed it out. I think they’re right.

I’ve spent the last handful of years pretending things weren’t real. My wife didn’t have an aggressive form of cancer. My businesses didn’t leave us in ruin. I didn’t plan on taking my life. Now, I tell myself my dad didn’t die. I don’t think I can do it anymore, but I don’t know how to grieve.

When am I supposed to do that? Take time off from work to cry? Skip cooking dinner to hide in my room and think about everything? No. That doesn’t sound right. DBT and CBT taught me useful skills for handling certain mindsets, like lessening depression and changing patterns of thought, but I don’t think they taught me how to grieve.

I worry that I won’t be able to do it, and that will chip away at me. I’ll continue to eat garbage and gain the weight back, or respond to a situation in an irrational fashion. Maybe it’ll keep me from being happy. Or, I might make my dad’s death about me, like I’m doing right now.

I just don’t feel like I am able to handle, process, or respond to things like a normal human being, whatever that means. The bigger the situation, the harder it is — and this is a pretty big one. I haven’t truly experienced other stages of grief either. I felt no anger and didn’t bargain. But denial has been a part of this process.

My father, brother, and I had a group text message. We’d complain — or be excited — about the Philly sports teams, depending on the circumstances. The night before he passed was the first time in a while that nobody used the thread to discuss a Phillies game. Since then, my brother and I kept up the texting tradition.

From a distance, my dad could appear to be the generic cis white male in his 60s. His white hair was cropped tight, and he was balding. He often wore suits but his casual wear matched that of every dad in his demographic. My sibling caught a glimpse of someone who looked like him. As long as these fashion trends continue, we will all continue to see him. My brother’s friend calls those winks.

I think I made a beeline to acceptance. The fact that his death was quick and painless helped. Believing that he was also planning for this may have made this easier. During that phase of his life was probably when I did most of the anger and bargaining.

There hasn’t been any depression yet. I’m worried that I won’t be able to get there, or that it will hit like a ton of bricks in a setting that will not allow for grieving. Like at a school event for my kids or on a all-too-rare date night. I don’t think anyone wants to hear my sob about how my dad made the best pumpkin cheesecake.

Thanks for triggering me, dessert menu.

After a loved one dies, it’s easier to believe in the afterlife. You want that for them. I think of my dad as being reunited with my mom, nonna, and both of their families. It’s a happy thought. I also think of him looking down on me and wondering why I’m not grieving for him the same way I did for my mom. Is he not worthy of it? Of course he is. I already miss the hell out of him and always will. This just all feels really different.

So, if you are up there and looking down on me, dad, please know I love you with all of my heart. Know that there is also a hole there in that heart that will never be filled. You were an amazing dad and, if there is a heaven, I will someday die in peace knowing I, too, will be reunited with you and our family.