as the grief shifts

Kristen
17 hours ago
6 min read

No Kristen wait, Dad DIED.

Two years ago on October 24, those 5 words changed my... life.

They changed the way I see grief and grieving people.

Grief is forever. And people grieve forever. I see that now. There is no wrong way to grieve. But what you bury, festers… it doesn’t die. Dealing with the grief in front of you is necessary. Because whether it feels true or not, there's more grief to come! Guaranteed.

They changed my perception of time.

Two years has never seemed so short and so long. I remember the last time I saw my Dad in great detail, like it was last week. I can still hear my Dad’s voice and see his expressions and mannerisms in my brother and sister and sometimes it feels like he is very alive. It also seems impossible that I haven’t been able to see him for 2 years. And I have forever to go.

They changed my ability to deal with uncertainty and fear.

My nervous system was FUCKED for a long time. I still have to work on it daily to keep myself regulated. Our bodies remember everything… which is cool, but also not when the sound of your alarm clock catapults you into full on shock. Our poor nervous systems don't understand time and the difference between real life and our thoughts. It's job is to keep us safe and scan for threats... constantly. I have learned to give it a lot of tender loving care.

They changed the way I view my relationships.

I have no time for those who don’t have time for me anymore. I put effort into relationships that I feel have an even exchange of energy. I tell people I love them and that I’m thinking about them...Even if it makes them feel a bit uncomfortable, it’s important to me that people know how I feel about them. I would rather them know than not know. I also practice staying in the moment when I’m with my family and friends- to be in the present and enjoy them.

They changed the meaning of death.

Did you know when someone dies, THEY DON’T COME BACK?? Even though your brain tries to convince you otherwise, when they're dead they're dead . “Had you ever dealt with death before?,” you ask. Yeah. But the death of my dad man, a whole new world.

Those 5 words used to hold a powerful emotional and physical charge, if I heard them play in my mind, I would feel a full wave of shock and start to cry or feel nauseous. Even with the shit ton of work that I've done to process this loss, it still took over a year to think about that day without feeling like I was back in it, both physically and emotionally. I have finally diminished the emotional charge to those images and voices. Playing that day over in my mind has lessened. I still think about it- and I still wish I had done things differently. I wish I didn’t run out of the car while it was still running and leave my daughter there, sprint to my friend’s house and fall to the floor when he opened the door. I wish I hadn’t hung up on my Mom because I didn’t know how to keep talking. I wish I had the courage to ask more questions about parts of that day I don't remember. On that day, I wish I had taken a deep breath, ask my Mom if anyone was with her, and tell her I'd be there soon. I wish I held my daughter as she processed the news she heard at the very same time I did. I wish I had turned off the car and cried, and then called my friends for support. I wish I had washed my hands better after throwing up in a rest stop bathroom on the way to their house. I wish I had called each one of my kids and talk to them separately once I got to Maine. But there ain’t no going back, so instead I have worked on my relationship with shock and death for 24 months.

It’s been long and sad and scary and awful and heartbreaking. And beautiful and loving and hopeful. And as this second year has gone by, I have noticed the grief shift on most days. I remember in the early months texting two of my friends who had been through significant loss and they promised me it would get easier; that I wouldn’t feel like a pile of shit forever, and that I would be able to feel more like myself again, and that it would be easier to smile again. And they were right, like they have been about many things over the last 30 years. I DO feel better. I DO feel like myself most of the time. I am back in my body and not floating around like a zombie. And it IS easier to smile when I think of a memory. I’m not guaranteed to burst into tears and go into full flight mode (that’s my go-to as you may have guessed). There are still times that it takes me a millisecond or two to remember he’s dead, and there are some days that it still feels impossible.

If you’re new to deep grief, keep going. Grieve and grieve again. The more you welcome in the grief and the heavy emotions that go with it, the more you’ll be able to feel light again. Take care of yourself. Ask for help, lean on a friend, drink water and try regulating your nervous system. FEEL your emotions. Cry. And laugh. And live. And cry again. Try to understand that people are trying to help even though they say the most unhelpful things. Keep in mind we grieve with our hearts, not our heads, and this is why most “words of comfort” just suck. Believe in signs, they help. A

nd lastly, develop of really sick sense of death humor.

You WILL feel better. You WILL.

I will miss my Dad forever, in a way that words cannot describe. And with that missing and longing, I will find his spirit here with us. I will continue to welcome the “random” songs that remind me of him, the one blaring in the Vermont rest stop on my way to my brother’s wedding, or on a shuttle bus on the way to an amusement part in Missouri. I will say hello to him when I see the numbers 24, 30 and 33 and see them show up in the most obscure places.I will take note of signs he sends through license plates as my eyes just happen to float toward the reminder of him. I will continue to talk about my Dad to my kids and mention his name- a lot. I will buy his favorite Late July Tortilla Dippers and think about how pissed he'd be that they continue to get more expensive. I mean, they're good but not that good. I'll take comfort in knowing that my kids think about him when they open the bag, and enjoy every expensive chip. I will continue to stop what I’m doing and listen when my kids share a sign they saw from him that day. I will hug my daughter extra tight when I think of her heart breaking that day and her Mom running from her instead of towards her. I will cherish every time she wears one of Poppy's shirts to bed.

Larry/Poppy/Dad/Daddo will continue to be honored and celebrated in my heart and throughout my life. I will keep listening to Bruce Springsteen and The Rolling Stones and think of him when I see live music. I will think of him when I see the Bissell Brothers logo on the back of a beat up Toyota on the way to see my brother and sister. I will take it as a sign when my text autocorrects a word into my nickname after having a conversation with a client about death and signs. ("Wow!" was autocorrected into "Sis!") I will continue to replay his voicemails and study every detail of his photographs. I will cry, and sometimes at the most inappropriate times. I will remember that sometimes the reactions I have to missing him is my body remembering, and there are some things that WILL trigger big, massive, huge emotions. And that's okay.

And I won’t be told how to grieve.

I will grieve in the way that is best for me.

And I hope you do too.

I love you, d. Stick around, we see you.