The Small Triggers of Grief When You Lose A Parent

My dad spent a lot of time his last few years with various ailments.  A small stroke, infections, and a couple of falls that resulted in broken bones that made it difficult for him to get around.   Watching him grow frail led me to wonder about what life would be like when the end comes. 

I figured that many things would crush me with emotion.  Maybe it would be pictures of him.  Or the random items of his I'd see inside the house.  Or symbols of him.  His many baseball caps.  His Orioles and Ravens clothing and memorabilia.  His workshop tools. Or maybe, as Rick Springfield once sang about, My Father's Chair.

But in the three plus weeks since his death, I've been amazed at how little these items have impacted me.  I looked through his hats and put several on.  I've walked through the house and looked at many bits and pieces of my dad's life over the years that I'd seen many times before.

Even looking at photos was relatively easy.  There were several boxes that we looked at, with random snapshots going as far back as the 30s and 40s.   Rather than feel sadness, I sat amazed at how damned good looking my dad was.  Only photos of Christmas really got me.  My dad loved Christmas. And we had some great ones. 

What nobody says is that grief seems to come when you're least looking for it, and in the oddest of places.  

I went with my mom to dinner a couple of days ago at Cracker Barrel.  The check came and my mom said "I've got it."  She pulled out a gift card that I recognized.  It was good at a variety of restaurants.

"Those are a great idea, because you can mix and match restaurants and you aren't tied down to any company." 

I realized I'd had that thought when I picked that same card out.  It was my last Father's Day gift to my dad.  It's amazing how many thoughts can flood through you in a short period of time.  I flashed back to that Father's Day and going to Kroger to buy him the gift card.  A rushed purchase for a guy who "didn't need anything".  But I remember specifically selecting this gift card because it was the only one that had a combination of restaurants close to their home and ones that would allow them to get out and travel a bit.   He'd been in so much pain that my parents trips out had been closer and closer to their house.  It was my way being practical and hopeful at the same time.   

My mom noticed my face and asked me what was wrong. I explained that it was what I gave dad last Father's Day.  Unspoken was that it would be the last time I would celebrate it as a son. 

When we went to pay for the meal, the card wouldn't scan through the machine.   Multiple swipes and nothing.  Sadness turned to dark laughter as I wondered if the last gift I bought for dad was a bad gift card.  It took almost 10 minutes for them to get it to work while they scanned it and typed it in, and tried multiple things.   As I left I silently thanked Dad for the meal, and the opportunity to think about him.  

It's been that way a lot in three weeks.  A background line in a show ordering a doctor to ICU 5 is an immediate reminder of the exact same room my Dad spent his last days in.   A song about romantic heartbreak on the radio that I've heard thousands of times suddenly easily transfers to the same emotions about my dad.  Maybe it's just the proximity to the event itself.  The grief doesn't feel real yet because the heart says "he'll be back, just give it time."  So most of the triggers now are things that tie me to immediate emotions of the recent past.  I suspect the milestones are going to kick my butt.  His birthday is a month away.  Then my anniversary.  My daughter's a month after that.  Then Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, his wedding anniversary, and a whole year of reminders that he's no longer present for any of them. 

My mom commented that you reflect on dad and realize how lucky you were to have him and have him for so long, but those blessings can be a curse because you've had something so good for so long that you don't know how to cope with it being gone. 

Perhaps it's just getting through these little reminders that we eventually put a small healing barrier around the open wound of loss.   

The Squiggle of Life — A Beginning At An End.

Two weeks ago today I lost my dad after a battle with an infection that took him away from us in pieces over a few weeks.

Two weeks and a day ago I’d have looked at “lost” as a euphemism, a way of deflecting the reality of what actually happens when someone dies.

But two weeks in, lost seems apt.  It feels like my dad is the world’s most important set of keys.  I know he has to be around here somewhere because I am home.  But I’ve torn the place apart and I can’t find him.

As my dad got older, I have thought about what it would be like when he died. It is nothing like what I imagined.

I have no frame of reference, only the bits and pieces I have picked up from friends and family who have lost their parents.

My mom lost both of her parents much younger than I am now at 47.  I did not know either and have always sensed my mom’s eternal sorrow and regret when she talks about them or sees them.  Several years ago she had two minutes of 8 mm film transferred of their wedding, and I remember crying at seeing two people I’d only known from photographs coming to life in front of my eyes.   My mom has talked about both her mom and dad in loving fragments, and I’ve never thought to ask more about them.  I suspect because subconsciously it was too raw, even decades later.

My dad lost his mom early as well.  I did not know her either, and it is to my eternal regret that I never talked much about her with my dad.  I’d thought of getting a video camera or audio recorder and talking to him so I could have record of the things I didn’t know about.   I didn’t because I thought it would feel artificial.  And now it’s too late.

My dad’s father died when I was in college.  He was the first real death I experienced. I remember my uncle Henry smiling at me and squeezing my hand as we stood at his casket.   We'd driven all day to get there and my dad had a dental emergency that meant we got to the funeral home after visiting hours were over.  I remember the funeral director opening the doors so dad could go in.  And I remember the tears hitting him. 

I assumed my dad was okay.  His dad was 90.  My dad was 53.  It was the natural order of things.  The circle of life. But now I wonder how much he was hurting and how much I never knew.   The circle of life should be comforting.  But what if it's less a perfect circle and more a crooked squiggle we have to untangle.