Notes on Grief

“Are you scared?”

“No, I just wish I knew what happens after.”

“What do you think happens? Do you think there really is a purgatory and then heaven or hell?”

“No, I don’t think so.”

“What about another life? Some people say rebirth is a thing.”

“Not that either.”

“Ok …. well what do you want to happen after?”

“I don’t know. I don’t  want an after or another life. I want this one, but I want to go back and do it right this time.”

It’s a reckoning that we all know is coming — answering to how we have lived our lives — and yet we live as if it’s not. In the hundred times I’ve replayed that conversation in my head, I can’t decide if it’s beautiful or tragic. It’s probably both. Cliché as it may be to look back at your life at the end of it and regret some of your decisions, it broke my heart to hear my dad say that. Not as his daughter, but as a person that’s hoping to live her life the right way, knowing my deepest fear is exactly that — living a life that in the end I’ll regret.

Grief is the weirdest thing. It’s something that sooner or later every one of us will go through, but likely, entirely unprepared. Unlike the parenting books everyone reads before the baby is born, we only reach for the grief books after someone has died. Understandably, part of it is that no one likes thinking or talking about death (their own or their loved ones’). When we face the death of a loved one, there are the things that you expect — the sadness, the numbing emptiness — and there are the things that you don’t. The weird things. 

One weird thing is that there’s no potential for future memories with that person. The memories you have are the only ones you will ever have. When a friend moves to another city, you miss them, but you also know that someday you might see them, run into them, have one more laugh with them. That’s not possible when someone dies — and it feels so weird. Anyone that comes into my life from this point forward will not know someone whose existence has been critical to mine. How often should I talk about him? How often should I replay the memories I have with him? Am I one day going to forget what his voice sounds like? I’m afraid of that. But I’m also afraid of always missing him. 

The other weird thing is related to our conversation about regret. As we grow up, we come to know that our parents are people and exist separately from us. They’re not as all-knowing and perfect as we imagine them to be; they have imperfections, make mistakes, and are not always right about everything. In death, we face that again. That our parent lived a whole life, and that we were only there for part of it. People you’ve never seen before come to pay homage to a version of your dad you never knew. Childhood friends have stories you weren’t present for, and suddenly you feel sad not that your dad is gone, but that he, as a person, has stopped existing. That all these versions of him — son, father, ex-husband, friend — are gone. He simply just doesn’t exist anymore. And it’s the weirdest thing. That someone can just be… gone. Several times during these gatherings I had the urge to call him to tell him how weird it all was. 

And that takes us to the next weird thing. You can’t call them anymore. After moving out of state for college and moving to another coast after graduation, I was used to not seeing my dad every day. What I was used to were phone calls. I was used to thinking of him on my walk home from work, and calling him knowing he almost never picked up, but 99% of the time called back two minutes later apologizing because his phone was on silent (again). 

We cleaned out his apartment a few weeks before he passed, while he was still in the hospital. After he passed, my brother and I combed through his things for keepsakes — his favorite jackets, photos, knickknacks. I kept his phone. I never turned it on (besides the obvious invasion of privacy, having to answer calls and explain to people why he wasn’t the one answering was not something I wanted to do), but I did have it in front of me the several times I tried to call him. It felt nice to have something tangible to stare at when my call went to voicemail. See, he’s not answering because his phone is right in front of you.  It felt like a weird kind of self-inflicted torture. No one is going to answer, no one is going to call back. Look, there’s his phone. Another instance of self-inflicted torture? Pondering about the mortality of everyone else in your life. 

On my birthday this year, I spent the day in bliss. Toward the end of the day I felt myself glancing at my phone every few minutes, expectant. I ran through a mental checklist of friends and family that usually call me on that day and realized the obvious. Immediately, I felt guilty for not thinking about him earlier. Immediately after that, the waterworks and a crushing emptiness, because I realized he wasn’t going to call, ever.

Most of grief is that — getting used to a new void in our lives where there once was a loved one. There are few unconditional loves that, if we are lucky, we get to experience in this life; one of those is the love of a parent. When you lose that love, it feels lonely in a way, because you are loved unconditionally by one less person in this world. One less person that knows you well and loves you because of and in spite of your virtues and flaws. One less call on a birthday is just a small reminder of that huge loss.

That’s how grief is for me. Weird. Between the bouts of deep sorrow and emptiness, there is only that — weirdness. Going through your days as if everything is normal but something feels off. Every day is different, and I know that grief itself is a different journey for everyone. I was able to say bye to my dad, but because of COVID-19 restrictions on hospital visitors, I know many were not able to see their loved ones one last time. My heart goes out to anyone that has lost a loved one in this weird, weird year.