When I graduated from college, my dad gave me a beautiful necklace—two circles, one inside the other. I’m not big on jewelry (it’s too high maintenance for me) so while I loved it, honestly I didn’t wear it often. I don’t remember what I was talking to him about one day at the hospital, but I remembered the necklace and brought it with me the next day. Whether he recognized it or his post-stroke reception enjoyed the glimmer of the silver, gold, and diamonds, his eyes were fixated. The problem? It sat in my jewelry box so long it got tangled up in so many knots. I realized that was a major reason why I didn’t wear it. So I pulled up a chair beside his bed, propped a pillow up for him to see, and got to work, determined to untangle the gift he gave me.
Without pause, he kept his gaze on my fingers, diligently working. About an hour later, after squinting, grunting, and somehow creating then undoing more knots, it came loose. The chain was free and ready to be worn. I held it up, beaming with pride, like it ironically represented my efforts to get the degree I initially received when he gifted me the necklace. As the embracing circles hung between us, both our eyes watching them sway, I chuckled. “Dad, I just noticed these circles are us, a representation of a dad and daughter bond. You’re the big circle, protecting and giving the little golden circle her foundation to shine.”
Since that day, the necklace hasn’t left my body, and everyday I’d come in, I saw his eyes search for it. Its metaphorical layers weigh heavy around my neck, showing me the nuances of grief. What makes grief so fragile is unlike lightning, it always strikes twice, or more.
On top of literally watching my father leave us, shrinking daily for five months, grief spread itself wide like an ink stain. I don’t have any advice or tidbits to share, just the already shed skins of my grief and the ones I see peeling before me.
My favorite social media post is the one that reminds everyone to be kind because each person fights a battle unseen. What makes being a writer, a blogger, and an author unique, is in fact our visibility. However, that yields the presumption people have that they know all of us so well. Truth of the matter is, even the most vulnerably open of us, have unspoken unshared layers, levels of other grief above our known ones. So today’s post is simply this reminder. Grief is nonlinear, has no concrete timeline, and is not happening in a vacuum. I hope to shed light on what we went through, what we learned, what we are still learning, and how to navigate the trauma. Next week’s post will be more concrete (about life support). So practice kindness, practice silence, practice honesty, and until then, heal wholly!
