It’s been over a month since my dad died. Sometimes people will ask how I’m doing and I say I’ve been trying to keep going. I’ve been mostly getting stuff done, but I’ve also been really scatterbrained. A few weeks ago I missed a Zoom meeting at work. It was right there on my calendar, which was open on my desktop. Google Calendar must have sent me a notification. There wasn’t a conflict that popped up. I just completely spaced out on attending it. Two hours later I realized my mistake and swore.
The thing about my relationship with my dad over the last few years is that I only really got to communicate with him in person, which, since I am across the country, was only a few times a year. He had a cell phone, but he never answered. Every once in a while I might happen to call my mom while she was visiting him and get her to pass the phone along, but really I only got to talk to him in person. When stuff popped up in life that I wanted to mention to him, I would store it away and then bring it up as conversation fodder during our visits. So, now that I’m back home, it’s not unusual that I’m not talking to my dad anymore. That’s sort of a blessing, a sense of normalcy, but it also means the finality of his death hasn’t set in. A few weekends ago I was talking with my mom about arrangements to get all of us to the memorial gathering and I was including my dad in the passenger count figuring out the available vehicles. You know, the vehicles going to his memorial…
People keep telling me there’s no right way to grieve, that there’s no manual, and right now I would really like a manual and a right way, because I feel like I’m flailing around. But I also know that if there were a manual, a prescribed way to grieve, I would be flailing against it, feeling deeply aggrieved.
You learn a lot about the people around you when you go through a loss. I’ve had some friends and family go above and beyond to check in on and support me. I’ve also been disappointed and hurt by how other people have responded. For a while, I was really holding onto the latter, but I decided it was counterproductive and that I’d have to be the bigger person. (Passive-aggressive much?)
Sympathy cards are almost all cheesy and sentimental, but it turns out that receiving them is a comfort after all. I had always wondered about that when sending them or routing them around the office - did it matter or was it just a formality? Two people sent me flowers1 and even though that is maybe such a cliché I felt really loved. Perhaps I am just a basic bitch.
I’ve barely written lately, which is unfortunate for several reasons, one of which is that I was auditing a writing class. I would sit down to write and begin to feel intensely uncomfortable both emotionally and physically. The same thing happened when trying to go for a nice walk to clear my head! I did a short online class last Saturday, though, and being in that supportive space made it possible to spit out a few words. I don’t know if I’ll do anything with them or not, but it gave me a sense that my creative juices will flow again.
I did also participate in my first semi-public reading a few weeks ago, hosted by Pacific University’s Body Chronicles program and the Northwest Narrative Medicine Collaborative. It was hybrid, with about half the readers and attendees being in person in Portland and the other half on Zoom. (Alas, I was on Zoom.) I have no idea how I did, and it was sort of terrifying, but I also felt accomplished.
In a few weeks my family will gather at a brewery’s taproom to remember my dad. He was a big fan of the restaurant associated with the brewery (he always ordered macaroni and cheese and a Vicious Mosquito IPA) but never got a chance to go to the taproom. I had planned to take him sometime, but it turned out our sometime has run out. I’m hoping the memorial will be a fulfilling and loving experience and that maybe I’ll feel more like I know what I’m supposed to be feeling once it’s over.
We’ll see.
Please do not send me plants. I will kill them. But I love a bouquet!