dad, I grieved you twice
first absence, then death
I remember the day you died.
Tuesday, April 7, 2020 - not long after lockdown began.
At the time, I was doing direct patient care on the hospital’s COVID unit - right in the thick of it all.
I had just finished an almost 13-hour shift, and it was finally time to crawl into bed and FaceTime the girl I was falling for. By my side, I had some cherries from the Hood River Cherry Company and a glass of my favorite beverage - water lol
While we were talking about our day and bonding over our trauma, this strange feeling came over me. The only thing I could think or feel was: “I need to check on my dad.” It was sudden, intense… and weird because I’ve never felt that urge before.
I wanted to text you, but something was telling me to go to your Facebook instead. That’s when I saw a post, on your wall, from a man I didn’t know. “If any of Willie’s family sees this right now, can you please give me a call ASAP” posted just a few seconds ago.
I didn’t know what to think. I felt a strong urge to call the number, but I was frozen. That’s when I accidentally sent the man a friend request. Panicked, I quickly cancelled the request, but he saw it, before it vanished. I received a friend request from this man, and shortly after, he tried calling me on Facebook messenger.
From there, I knew something was up. I messaged him asking if everything was okay, and that’s when I learned 2 things.
The random man was your roommate.
You just died.
I didn’t know how to feel, or what to do with that information. How could I grieve you when I barely knew you? Could I really mourn this relationship if it never had a chance to fully exist? I was feeling sad, confused, guilty, and unsure if I was “allowed” to even grieve. You were my dad - but you were also a stranger. That made the grief complicated, but so heavy.
I grieved you while you were living, and I grieved you when you died.
I don’t even want to get into the chaotic shit your ex-wife put me through while trying to mourn you. She was always jealous of me, and every time I think about how successful she was in keeping you away from me, the more angry I feel.
I wish you had more of a backbone, dad. Your friends told me how you felt pressured into marrying her. I understand being with someone who is manipulative and controlling, but it also hurts to know that you chose fear, over being here for me, your daughter. You didn’t stand up for yourself, you didn’t stand up for me.
There were a few times, after you left her, that you tried to mend things. You tried to visit me, talk to me more… I hate that it never worked out - usually because of my busy schedule. I’ll never have those chances again.
I wish I could hug you.
I wish I could read this letter to your face.
I wish I could cry to you.
Maybe yell at you too.
Anyways, dad, that’s all I have to say today. Happy Birthday, wherever you are.
btw, do you remember those handwritten letters I used to send to you? I usually would write my heart out and send it without looking back. That’s what I did here. If there’s any typos… I’m sure you’re used to it.
Elena:
I can say with the truest of compassion — I feel you; I know that pain. I’m so sorry for the loss of your dad — twice, as you say so poignantly.
I’ve taken the liberty of attaching a link to a post by @MaryAnn Burrows. She’s written some profound words, prose and poetry, about the grieving she’s experiencing having just recently lost her dad.
I, too, lost my dad twice. It’s a very long and complicated heartbreaking story — probably much like yours (the complicated part).
After reading MaryAnn’s post, I commented a little about my own grief — Again, I’ve taken liberties, and should my words be unwelcome, please know they are only meant to be empathetic (but, let me know if I’ve crossed the “too personal” boundary).
Here were my thoughts yesterday, beginning with a quote from MaryAnn’s post:
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“…be cautious of the choices you make while grieving.”
Wise words, MaryAnn, and all of us whose lives are upended in grief still have to make choices — life proceeds even though we’re not in step.
It’s really difficult to not berate oneself for not seeing things more clearly, to not have thought through quite as thoroughly ordinary and everyday decisions, to wonder how long before balance will be regained.
I’ve not yet found that steadiness, that strength, that assuredness, that confidence.
Grief has such an unwieldy immensity to it; it overwhelms at times out of the blue, even after years.
The hardest part is being able to forgive oneself for “taking too long,” for not “moving through it,” for the regret of not having apologized, for not asking so many questions when now it’s too late.
Grief and regret are very heavy — for me, their weight has never lessened. I do accept the consequences of and responsibility for a part of that. Nonetheless, my heart aches for what was, the stolen time, for words unsaid, for separation, and mostly for missing love and laughter where now there is only silence.
https://substack.com/@maryannburrows/note/c-130740566?r=4j0ba7&utm_medium=ios&utm_source=notes-share-action