Things I Wish I Had Known #17: The Weight of Grief

If you had asked me in my late 20s if I had ever had my heartbroken, I would have said yes. By that age, I thought I had learned loss. I had lost pets, friendships, and relationships. I lost half of my extended family. For a period of time, I lost myself, and I didn’t even know that was possible. Two months after I turned 30, my dad got diagnosed with Stage IV lung cancer, and I knew before my dad even told me that the diagnosis was coming. I called home from work on a Tuesday, and I never do that. I did that day because something inside of me was screaming for me to pick up the phone. Eleven months later, I went home for a weekend visit even though my parents told me not to, and honestly, I was exhausted. I had just started teaching at a new school that fall. I wanted to sleep, and my parents had offered me an easy out for the weekend. Once again, I couldn’t ignore the pull to go home in my blood. If you went through my text message log for that weekend, you would find texts I sent Friday and Saturday saying, “I think this is the end.” On Sunday morning, my dad passed away. I will never talk about our conversations that weekend. My father was private, and sharing those conversations seems sacrilegious.

All that loss I felt in my teens and 20s suddenly felt like nothing. I could have had every guy I dated break up with me 100 times, and it still would have been easier to deal with than losing my dad. I couldn’t have asked for a better dad. I miss him because I love him, but I also miss him because I am so much of him. For better or worse, I inherited a lot of my dad’s qualities: his quick temper, his talent with swear words, his stubbornness, his ability to instigate, his sense of humor, his lack of patience for bullies, his love of staying home, and his apathy toward what people thought of him. When my dad died, I didn’t just lose a father, I lost someone who understood me given that our personalities are so tangled together. To put it bluntly, it was the worst hit I’ve ever taken.

I felt numb. I suspect part of that was from the additional anxiety medicine I took temporarily, but I also think my body understood that I was in no way ready to cope. It’s easier to feel numb than sad. Likewise, I was angry for a very long time. I felt betrayed that other people love their parents far less but get to keep them far longer. I was angry about what my last memory of him was. I was angry that I’m supposed to believe in a God that causes so much pain. When people told me he was in a better place, it took everything I had in me not to respond, “Would you like to switch places with him if you think it’s so great?” I was angry when people brought him up in moments where I wasn’t crying or devastated. Again, I frequently wanted to ask, “Did I look too happy for one second? I assure you that I could not forget him if I tried.” I’m still angry at the people who should have showed up for him but didn’t or put in a brief showing at best. I wouldn’t say I forgive well, and unfortunately, I’m even less forgiving when it’s someone I love who is being hurt.

If you keep up with my writing, you will know that my relationship with Catholicism is strained. I am hopeful that I will see him one day again, but I don't know that for certain. I do know that energy can neither be created nor destroyed. I'm certain his love for me exists whether or not I can see him. Likewise, I'm certain that his energy is still carried by anyone who loves him. And if I'm being honest with myself, I couldn't get his voice out of my head if I tried. My dad had a booming voice. Most people could and did interpret his normal voice as yelling at times when he was just speaking. When I'm being indecisive, I hear my dad's voice echo clearly, "Kelly, you can go left or you can go right, but don't look back. Just choose." Whenever we had to put down a dog when I was a child, I was devastated. I still am that way to be honest. Every time, my father asked, "Do the years of happiness the dog brought you outweigh the pain you are feeling in this moment? If the answer is yes, the pain you feel right now is worth it." I would never compare losing my dad to losing a pet. We all know I love my dog, but it just isn't even close. I come back to that question a lot though. It's actually pretty great advice that is applicable to just about anything: friendships, career choices, moves, hard decisions. I got 31 years with a father who loved me unconditionally. Even in my worst pity party, I know that's more than some people get, and those decades were a gift. I have to look at them as a gift because it makes the loss bearable. When a friend loses a parent, I almost always reach out even if it has been years since we talked. I know the weight of sadness and the devastation of grief; I also know that you have to go through it in some form. Dealing with grief is unavoidable, and I should know because I tried very hard to avoid it. Even when it feels like you won't survive grief, you have to move forward even if it's just a fraction of an inch, and it never hurts to have a friend who is willing to army crawl through the pain with you. I'm grateful to the people who helped me.

Recently, I've realized I got one part incredibly wrong. Pain is pain. There is no way to weigh it and no point in believing my pain is more significant than someone else's pain. Nobody wants to win that competition anyway. While it's tempting for me to write off other people's problems as "not that bad," I don't know that. While I tell teenagers they will survive a heartbreak and I know they will, I try my best to not diminish what they are going through and the emotions they are feeling. I remember being a teenager. My world was smaller which made any type of crashing wave feel like a tsunami. It's easy for adults to decide in hindsight that something wasn't that bad, but it never feels like that at the time. I didn't even have a particularly bad middle school experience, and I'm not sure how much money it would take to get me to relive those years because I certainly don't miss the insecurities that come with those ages.

For the rest of my life, I will always carry the loss of my dad like an invisible backpack. Other people may not always see it or know it is there, but I feel the weight of it all of the time, in the happiest moments and saddest of moments. With that said, I also carry at least some of my dad's energy which helps me to stand up even when I would really rather stay knocked on the ground. It's the same energy that won't let me back away from a fight even when I know I can't win. It's the same energy that somehow helps me remain kind rather than becoming jaded or self-pitying.

Tim O'Brien was correct. We all carry things with us. I think the more important part might be how we individually choose to carry the weight of our pasts.

To my dad, in my life, I love you more.