I don’t want to be that girl who lost her dad, but there’s no way around it.
Grief is a fucking asshole that way.
It’s not like I suffered this unthinkable loss in my 20’s or something. I’m middle-aged for fuck’s sake. I should be grateful he was in my life for as long as he was, but at 52 I wasn’t ready to say goodbye.
That’s one of the problems with having a wonderful father — thinking I could ever be ready.
The fantasy: Dad would be 99 years old, happy with his long life, nothing left he wanted to do. One evening we’d kiss him goodnight, he’d close his eyes and his dreams would lead onwards to his next destination. Peacefully.
But that’s not what happened.
Instead, my delightfully quirky 84 year old father suffered on and off for the last year of his life. After an MRI in August revealed the 3 cm Glioblastoma brain tumor that took away his doctor’s mind, golden voice and sharp wit, he was gone in just over a month.
GONE.
I keep repeating the same things over and over and over and over and over. Silent desperate questions to the bastard of a universe that never answers.
Of all things, why destroy what made him so special?
Didn’t that beautiful man deserve so much better?
Why did you have to take him from us?
How the fuck is this fair?
And that’s the miserable truth about grief that we only learn the hard way: Loss isn’t fair, and never will be. It just is.
My father — always and forever Daddy — was the ultimate GirlDad. He was my hero, my confidante, my mentor, my heart. Since his passing on September 11th (like we wouldn’t have remembered any other day?) little memories keep popping into my head out of the blue.
Like when he recovered my blankie from the top of the closet.
Or when he’d wake me up early on Sunday to get an Egg McMuffin.
Or when he asked how medicated I’d need to be after Bush Jr’s second win.
Or when we’d watch the Eagles together and yell at the same parts.
Or when he’d always call to sing me Happy Birthday.
Or when he was the first person I told I had MS.
Or when unprompted he loaned me money to get out of my house so divorce proceedings could begin.
Or when he’d laugh at the noise canceling headphones I’d wear at his house because he was watching Fox news.
Or when he’d giggle at the dancing cactus I gave him last year.
Or in the hospital when he took my hand, kissed it and told me he loved me, already knowing that very shortly he’d have to leave us.
Maybe these vignettes are some sort of grief consolation prize to scrub away the awful memory of those last few weeks, of his funeral, of the deafening silence that followed.
Or maybe they’re showing up now because he’s sending them to me. Please let that be true.
We all know this trauma is coming for us. Someday.
Not one to ask for help, I’ve been struggling with Dad’s death since it happened. Both thinking I should be closer to peace with his loss by now while at the same time fiercely protective of his memory and scared about how I am processing this heartbreak.
Friends who have suffered the loss of a parent have tried to help me through the constant emptiness I feel. Gently reminding me that while the pain never goes away, at some point you learn how to navigate it. That the sharp ache will somehow dull. Eventually.
I can’t see that happening. Not because I’m special, but because he was.
Fear of forgetting Dad while trying to heal from losing him is overwhelming, irrationally so. I tell myself that he wouldn’t want me be this hurt, for his memory to make me sob rather than smile. That he would be upset with me for holding on to grief at this level because it will damage me emotionally, spiritually, physically.
Trust me Daddy, I realize all of this. I just don’t know what else to do.
I can’t pretend to be strong. I can’t pretend I’m not angry. I can’t pretend I don’t miss him every single fucking day. I can’t pretend I know how to exist without always coming back to him.
They say that your degree of grief directly correlates to how much love you shared with the person you lost. Heartfelt in theory, devastating in reality.
Once I crawled out of the initial grief cave, the first friends I called were women who also lost their dads. A subconscious choice? Maybe. But who else could understand all this as much.
The advice was wide ranging, from not crying when he shows up in a dream because you’d wake up before you could talk to him, to recognizing the random signs that he’s still with you. From asking him questions when you need the support, to how a photo of him can be comforting, not profusely sad. That grief is like living with a constantly changing wave; just when you think you’re in the clear, it crashes back on you.
But what struck me was the lack of “shoulds”.
That there is no stopwatch on grief, no set of rules or steps to follow. Cry, scream, cook, work out, watch bad TV, sleep until 2pm, eat junk food. Whatever you have to do, do it. Take up all the space you need to process on your own timeline, in your own way, no matter how agonizing. But don’t let it destroy you.
Or at least try.
I can’t say their advice made me feel better, but knowing I’m not alone eased the sting some. That feeling miserable and lost and flooded by sadness is ok.
Funny how we forget that we don’t need permission to grieve.
So have I learned anything since losing my GirlDad? Not sure.
But I now know that it’s best to cry in the shower because your face is already wet. That speaking out loud to your dead dad when you need him isn’t ridiculous. And that you have to give yourself a break. No father wants to see his little girl beat herself up, least of all over him.
But mostly that your life has to go on. It just does.
For me, that means sharing stories here of my silly, remarkable, Republican, frustrating, talented, brilliant, creative, loving GirlDad. And maybe by putting it out there, if I ever start to forget him, one of you will remind me.
Hope to talk to you in my dreams soon Daddy, because the Eagles are rocking it this season.
But you already knew that.
A lapsed Philosophy major with an MFA in theatrical lighting design and over 2 decades experience in the web industry, Eve is an award-winning designer, writer, storyteller and podcaster. Explore more of her writing or get in touch.
