Three weeks ago today, at 6:23 p.m., I watched my dad take his last exhale. His heart rate—reaching a high of 176 that afternoon—suddenly became so faint, the doctors scrambled to get an ultrasound pulse reader to try and find it. I told them there’s no use. I saw him leave us and I slowly backed away and into the chair that became mine for months.
It still hasn’t hit me and some people have told me this type of grief doesn’t kick in till later. I fear that may be true and a part of me has sensed it since the moment he was diagnosed in May. The way my body remained surprisingly tranquil throughout it all scared me. Was this the calm before the storm? And if so, when will this storm strike? And if it does, what will become of me?
Loss has never been my strong suit, but to be honest, the losses I’m referring to are not death. They never have been. They have been relationships ending—a divorce or a breakup or a rejection. They have been jobs that became so toxic I had to leave. They were friendships that ended when I got ghosted. And occasionally, they’ve been files or poems or journals that I eventually learned to move on without. Actually, all of those “things” I eventually learned to move on without. But how do you move on without a father? And how do you navigate through a grief, that for the first time, is not just yours?
When we all gathered around my father’s body—mama, my brother, my uncle, and the two doctors who were my dad’s friends, along with the nurses who became so much like family I miss them all everyday, I realized, unlike every loss before, I am not experiencing this one alone. Suddenly, at age 30, I am re-learning how to share and it’s not easy. How to practice a balance between allowing myself to grieve while also making room for others who are entitled to grieve, to do so as well. There’s no Barney or Blue’s Clues or Elmo for this y’all.
A week later, mama and I were in the car, and I said, “I know this is even harder on you because we as adult children don’t have a status change in this loss, but you’ve become a widow.” Widow. She let the word fall from her lips and said, “Yeah, and I never imagined I’d ever be one, especially not like this.” We started recollecting who else from our community was a widow and remembered that a few of them showed up to dad’s funeral and squeezed her tight. I nudge her to continue connecting with them. Group therapy can be as simple as friendships built on solidarity, as a start.
Then there are my brothers, one who doesn’t live here and landed hours before the funeral, and one who spent a good amount of his time with dad on boys’ nights out his whole life. I’ve seen more of their tears now than ever before and I open my soul for them. I am not a son so I do not know anything more than the loss of a daughter., which means I cannot fathom the pain his parents feel either, and I remind myself that I had to and have to share that grief with them too.
It’s not easy, grief. Add on complicated layers of other things experienced in conjunction with the loss, and it becomes a fiasco that’s left us questioning how we are still standing. But there’s something very powerful about the concept of shared grief that I never got to experience in any of my other losses, and that is the unique sense of not being alone, while still being alone. Bear with me, because these coming posts on grief will unpack a great deal of things that don’t make sense but do, all at once.
Despite the numerous texts I received (and still receive) I feel very alone. I always have in times of loss. It’s hard to reach out and ask someone to listen because even you get tired of hearing about your own pain. Then if you do find the courage to reach out, it’s hard to openly express your pain without the fear of judgment or the fear of having spirituality shoved down your throat. Yes, I know, it sounds awful, but not being able to be angry or question things or not uphold a rose colored lens of optimism in these times is often opposite of what many of us crave in our healing. So it becomes difficult to find the company you can completely let your guard down with.
I sort of found someone. He sort of volunteered. It’s a complicated history with a strange present and a completely unknown future, but it helps. They—his presence and my needs in grief—have taught me how to better share grief and how to better be there for those grieving, especially those I am sharing the grief with.
To share grief is to exercise another level of empathy, which takes a great deal of energy, but comes back just as rewarding. It itself becomes a sense of healing power for you, just as much as it heals those you are sharing with. There will be difficult times, moments when you need your own space, where you feel entitled to a selfish second of not caring about anyone else except your own heart, and that is understandable. Take that second to yourself, letting others around you know you are doing so, and then come back. Remember that you are not entirely alone in this grief. Others are hurting too and your love feeds off each others' because it's not just the grief that you are sharing, it's the healing too.
I feel it when my brother laughs. When we all gather around our cat, Kai, and bombard him with kisses. When we capture mama's snoring. When we find a movie on T.V. we love and make popcorn and escape reality for two hours.
As I tell people, it’s not going to be an easy journey but we have no choice but to go through it. In the meantime, I feel called to share the lessons we learned (and will learn) in this experience because there were and will be things experienced that I hope others do not have to encounter.
Until then, heal wholly.
