Dear Elli,
You looked at me dead in the eyes a couple weeks ago and said, "You process grief in a really weird way."
I actually laughed out loud. Because you're right. I do.
The experts say there are multiple stages of grief, and I tend to agree. Everyone is different, though. Everyone processes grief in a weird way. We're all pretty weird, kid. But, yes, I realize I'm probably weirder than most in the emotion department.
I lost my dad. He was the best dad on the planet. And the best friend. The best mentor. The best at everything for me. And our relationship was absolutely positively 100% the most amazing father/daughter relationship I have ever seen in my life. And it was ours. We had that. I had that. I lost that.
When he got sick this last time, I knew it was the last time. I don't how I knew, but I did. Even before he went into the hospital I had this awful feeling in my stomach as I watched his health decline. I told myself to stop it. I put on my normal shiny smile and positive attitude and encouraged him and posted updates for our family about his progress in the hospital. But I knew. Deep inside, I knew.
He knew, too.
He went into the hospital on April 27th. He was transported to hospice on May 14th. He died on May 20th. I gave his eulogy on May 28th. We buried his ashes on May 29th. For some reason, it is so important to me that I never forget those dates.
His days in the hospital were the most traumatic 18 consecutive days of my life. He was so sick. In so much pain. It took every ounce of strength I had in my soul to bear it. It almost broke me.
It was one fight after another. I sat with him every day. I watched him curl up in his bed with pain so severe he couldn't breathe or speak. I watched him go through unbelievable bouts of nausea, almost constantly. I felt incompetent. I felt angry. I felt sadness. I felt so much love for my dad. But more than anything, for 18 consecutive days I felt the most overwhelming terror I have ever felt in my life.
And I was alone with him through all of it. By myself. I was his only authorized visitor at the hospital. Because of COVID.
Fuck COVID and the horse it rode in on.
I fought as hard as I could for him. I fought the doctors who thought he wasn't sick enough. I fought for tests. I fought for medication. I fought the hospice people who didn't think he was dying fast enough to admit him. Sometimes I fought with logic and reason. Sometimes I fought with rage. Sometimes I fought while sobbing. Sometimes I combined all three. But I fought the most important battles of my life during those 18 days. For him. I'll never understand the reason I had to fight in the first place. It was so incredibly unfair. And I was so terrified before, during, and after every single one of those battles that I was going to fail him.
When Grandpa was finally transferred to hospice on May 14th, the terror ended. He was finally in the right place. He was finally comfortable. And relaxed. Pain free. He could finally have visitors. I wasn't alone anymore. And I didn't have to fight anymore. Thank God.
As perverse as it sounds, I was happy during his last six days. I sat with him, surrounded by family and friends, and mostly watched him sleep. He was so calm. So peaceful.
Before I left him to go home the evening of May 19th, I stole a few minutes alone with him. He wasn't awake. He hadn't been lucid much at all for a few days. I held his hand and I told him it was okay to go. He didn't need to hold on any longer for us. And I told him that there were a lot of people who love him waiting to see him on the other side.
He died at 5:50am the next morning.
I was okay. I was not in denial that he was gone. I knew it very well. I was relieved. My most prominant emotion after his death was relief for him, and probably for myself too.
And I was busy. It was action time. And the only thing I cared about was making sure that everything I did to celebrate his life was something he would be proud of. His obituary, his memorial service, and his eulogy. And finally, I didn't feel incompetent at all. I can organize a pretty bad ass get together. And I can write some good shit sometimes. I was so determined to write something for him that he would love. Something accurate. Not embellished. Something real, and true, and right. And I think I did it.
I was so proud to see how many people came out to celebrate Grandpa Gordon's life. So many people who loved him, and also who love me. And I was so proud to stand in front of them and give his eulogy. Share his story. His love. And his life. It was an amazing feeling to stand at that podium and speak the truth of who he was. I smiled. I laughed. I cursed once or twice. I faltered a few times too, but it was his truth. And it felt amazing to speak it on his behalf. It was the greatest honor of my life so far.
I was okay after all of that. Fine, really. Working, going on vacation, throwing family parties, hitting the road again for work, taking you to swim meets and doctor appointments and school shopping and whatever else needed to be done. I was juggling everything just fine. Just like normal. Mostly with a smile. Until the past two weeks.
I felt the cracks starting to form. Emotions bubbling up to the surface. I guess grief is finally catching up with me. I thought that maybe I could get away without feeling it. Maybe my heart wouldn't break after all. I was wrong. Well, shit.
I've learned these past two weeks that long drives in the car alone are the devil. They make me cry. A lot.
When I'm alone with my thoughts, it's like I can physically feel all the broken pieces of my heart. Like they broke, fell out, and just blew away in the wind. There's this empty space, like a hole. That hole is what hurts. That empty place. It makes me cry. I really miss my dad.
Nobody sees me cry, except you and Dad sometimes. I don't want them to. I don't want my pain to be noticed by other people. I hate being a buzzkill and I hate being pittied even more than I hate being a buzzkill. I don't want to discuss it yet. I just want to feel my pain on my terms. My way. So that's what I'm doing. And yes, I know I'm weird.
So that's my thing now. Car crying. And sometimes kitchen crying. And definitely blog writing crying.. But mostly alone crying. I think it helps. At the very least, I always feel better for awhile afterward. Like maybe a tiny piece of that hole in my heart somehow fills back up when I let myself feel the emptiness. I guess the first part of filling anything is acknowledging that it's empty in the first place. It's still a really big hole, but I think I can fill it back up with my love for him. And my memories of him. Eventually.
Grandpa Gordon thought I was weird, too, by the way. You're not the only one. He was a public crier. He had zero qualms about it. He would cry in front of anyone if the urge struck him. And for awhile he thought it was his fault that I don't. I'll never forget this one moment. We were at a funeral. I think it was maybe Uncle Paul's, but I can't remember for sure. All these damn funerals run together. Jesus... But I do remember the moment. That part is crystal clear.
We were standing inside the funeral home together. He had tears running down his cheeks, and of course I was totally dry-eyed. He looked at me and said, "Did I make you so hard? Is it my fault?" And I smiled at him and responded, "No, Dad. I'm not hard at all. Not on the inside." He nodded his head, and continued to cry. And I stood next to him, holding his hand, continuing not to cry.
I cried in the car on my way home then, too.
I know I'm a little weird, but I'm gonna be okay. It will take some time, and probably a lot more car crying. But I'll be just fine and dandy soon. I promise. And in the meantime, I'll try to keep the letters flowing. Keep telling more parts of his story, and mine. I may suck at emotions in person, but I can definitely write some shit.
I love you.
Mom
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