Hi all, thank you for stopping by my blog once again. This post will be a bit different. I won’t be giving home decor tips or motivating you to journal or read (although I do think you should). Instead, I’m just going to write, about what has happened in my life, how I’m “handling” it and other pieces of words that have been on my mind. Writing has always been how I’ve best expressed myself, and putting my jumbled thoughts into coherent sentences helps me process what is going on in the world around me. While I have journaled more than ever recently, I haven’t put any of my words out into the world. Keeping them to myself is not a bad option; however, I believe that stories and words, no matter how closely one may relate to them, can make a difference. I believe that each story deserves to be heard, so that’s why I’m taking up a few minutes of your time to share mine. And my dad’s.
On December 29, 2023, at around 10:30 p.m., my dad died. He was 54 years old, and many years too young to die. He had been battling stage 4 colon cancer since August of 2022, and I have never seen anyone fight so hard to stay alive. He told me about two months before he passed that he wasn’t ready to die, and if there’s one thing I’m sure of, it’s that no one else was ready for him to die either. I know I wasn’t, and I’m still not ready even though it’s happened.
Before my dad passed, I thought I was “good” at grief. I had lost all of my grandparents (3 out of 4 during my lifetime), and I knew how I was supposed to handle everything. I knew about the death day and how people from town would bring over casseroles and sandwiches because they didn’t know what else to do. I knew how to greet people at visitations and shake their hands and thank them for coming. I had been to church funerals and graveside services. I knew how long they took and what to expect. All in all, I had a good understanding of death and grief and what life looks like after you lose someone, for a 22-year-old anyway.
But no amount of funerals or visitations could have prepared me for losing my dad. Nothing could have prepared me for trying handle my dad dying while I was supposed to be a college student and maintain scholarships, a friend, an active member of my community and a fiancé (eventually a newly-married wife). Nothing could have prepared me for the phone calls I received from my parents while walking on campus about how my dad’s scans showed more spread. Or even worse, the lack of call from my parents after an appointment because they didn’t know how to break the news to me over the phone. Nothing can prepare you for sitting down with a hospice team, trying to decide what the right course of action is or making the decision that Dad couldn’t stay at home anymore. Nothing can prepare you for watching your dad slowly turn yellow from toxins and lose the ability to speak all while ESPN plays on in the background. Nothing can prepare you for any of it.
In October, after we received the news that treatment was no longer working, my therapist and I discussed how to grieve someone who was still living. While everything about this story has been difficult and painful, this might have been the hardest part for me. I struggled with how to talk and live with someone who was actively dying. I didn’t know what to say or how to act. Should I let myself cry or stay strong for him? Do I ask how he is feeling or his wishes for my life after he passes? How do I say goodbye to someone so special and close to me? How do I accept that this is the end of their story, that there is no miracle or happy ending?
Very long story short, from October to December, I grieved my dad, who was slowly fading away, and it wasn’t pretty. I cried every day, multiple times, was depressed, was angry, pulled at my hair, picked away at my skin until my hands were bloody and I pleaded with God until there was nothing else to say. So when December 29th came, I wasn’t ready ( I will never be ready), but I wasn’t angry. I had accepted that my dad was dying, and the ending to his story would permanently be part of mine.
The visitation and funeral were a blur, filled with people introducing themselves and hugging me, exhaustion and tissues and numb silences when you knew everyone was thinking about how he was gone. But after everything was finished, the next day rolled around, and then the next and the next. The world kept turning and the sun kept rising (even when it’s gloomy January). And somehow we kept operating and living and eventually, my husband and I left my hometown and came back to Ames. The apartment was the same as I had left it when I went home in early December, and it was strange and comforting at the same time. That brings us to where I am now, trying to learn how to live without someone who was, and still is, such a huge part of me.
I struggle with my grief every day, but most days look different. Some days I’m grieving while I’m singing in the car or shopping at Target or walking my dog. And some days I’m grieving while I’m crying in my bed or looking through photos of my dad. In everything I do, I am grieving and processing the huge life change that just happened. Some days I still can’t believe this is real life, and others, I’m just grateful he’s not in pain anymore.
Looking back, I was so naive to think that someone could be “good” at grief. While you might know how visitations go or what to expect at funerals, the truth is, no one will ever be good at grieving. There are no right or wrong ways to grieve, and God knows there’s not a handbook that gives a checklist on how to process losing someone you love. This type of grief, of losing my dad, is something I’ve never felt before. It has been the most achingly painful feeling I’ve ever experienced. Grief has been numb and humbling and anger-invoking. But it has also been comforting, knowing that while everyone is grieving, they are still thinking about my dad and how much he will be missed. Grief will always be there, but it is sneaky and always evolving. And no matter how difficult it may be, I have to be okay to be along for this ride.
