Facing Grief

I watched my dad die next to me in the car when I was 7 years old. I watched his soul pass on, and because he was such a jokester, I thought he was messing with me and I laughed until I realized what was happening.

It was a beautiful Sunday in the winter. The day before, we had gone out and went skiing together, my Dad trying to race me down the hill and losing miserably to the little speedster zipping down the slopes. My Dad was a big family guy. I didn't get to know him much but from my memories, he loved adventure, challenges, and loved to joke around with us. That Sunday, we were on our way home from church and on a whim we happened to pass our Dad on his way to take our dog to get a general checkup and shots. He asked if I'd like to come with him. Normally, I would have said no and just gone back home with mom and my siblings, but that day I felt like I should join him for whatever reason.

In the car, I was laughing with the dog who was being so silly and making faces. My dad gently told me to quiet a little because his head was hurting. We got only a few miles down the road and suddenly he became panicked, held his chest, shouted "I'm going to pass out" and then veered the car over to the side of the road and at the last minute put it in park. He died. Gone.

I hadn't really understood death at that age. Although we did lose our hamster by accident and had a proper shoe-box-burial in the backyard. This was something different. It wasn't the event itself that traumatized me. When I saw him pass it was like a peace rested over me. Something told me it was ok. Our pastor and a very nice lady happened to be there by some divine timing just as it occurred and they took care of me, getting me out of the car with the dog and taking us to their house until eventually my mom came to pick us up later.

The grief didn't come because of the loss of my Dad. It came when I slowly watched my family drift away. I don't know why I handle death the way I do. Maybe it's just having a logical brain that just understands death as a process and its just part of our experience here. It just is what it is. But the grief hit me months later when my Dad didn't walk through the garage door at the usual time. Our family-fun routines melted away. My mom slowly lost her mind.

The grief came with the aftermath of a 7-year-old child feeling the weight of her family and trying to keep it together to show them that it was ok. That it could be ok eventually. The weight of carrying her own mother, trying to make her happy, so she could get the care she needed for herself and her devastated parent. Grief affected everyone differently but our family didn't make it out very well. We separated over time. My sister stopped playing with me. My brother left home and stopped reaching out. My mom broke down and couldn't go on slowly becoming abusive and emotionally neglectful to me. We lived pretty separate from society and didn't have a lot of friends so we were pretty isolated as well.

What hurt the most was, I cognitively could understand why everyone in my family reacted the way they did. But it didn't help with the burdens and grief I carried. It wasn't until I was in my late 20's that I finally had "the cry". A deep soulful release of pent up tears I never shed for the loss and grief I experienced from the time my Dad left this world due to a heart attack. Grief for the loss of my family and the feelings of abandonment that came from our slow separation and misunderstanding overtime and the unnecessary bullying from my siblings that certainly didn't help either.

Grief and death really does hit people differently and we never really expect it. It often comes so suddenly when we least prepared. It often seems cruel. We lose people to injustice and the poor actions of others. Nothing seems to make it any better. It never does seem to make any sense. We do the best we can and cope, make up stories, review memories, but nothing ever really seems to take away that slow ache eating at us inside.

Death became a friend of mine. That was the only way I could cope. I recognized death as an ally. Something that was just as misunderstood as me. When I witnessed animals passing, the birds that randomly ran into our windows and died upon impact or the loss of our dog, cats, and other critters...I began to hold space for them. I observed. I honored their passing. I spoke loving words over little bird graveyards next to the trees by our house. At my Dad's funeral, I stayed present, I watched everyone and held space for them too, honoring their process, their grief, seeing their pain and showing them a way through with little hugs and momentary laughs. It wasn't a role I should have had to play so young but I adapted to it because there was no help for me and no one was capable of holding space for me through grief. My sweet Aunt Karen, who I had so many good memories with, was one person that could stop for a moment. She saw me sitting alone on a bench, watching everyone around me and took the time to pause and sit next to me and have some normal conversation. I always appreciated that moment and was thankful to her for just being with me while everyone else seemed lost in their pain.

Over my lifetime, I studied grief, death, and how to transition through life changes with more grace. I've faced many griefs. It became my gift later on when I began holding that space for myself to grieve and when I learned that I didn't have to carry everyone else's burdens for them.

I tried to "cope" with many different crutches. But the only way I found to deal with grief is to just face it. To let it hurt. To be with it. You can't go around it, you can't fuck it away, you can't smoke it away, drink it away, love it away, binge watch Netflix it away, or cry it away. You just simply acknowledge it. You allow. And over time, when you honor that process, whether its for yourself or someone else, you slowly make space for joy again. Joy and Grief are good friends, or so it seems. It is often between joy and grief that we find ourselves, struggling to get from one place to the other. But that space between is where beautiful things happen even if it's bittersweet.

The space between is where we meet change within ourselves. It's where we transform, learn, and grow. It's the space where we alchemize our suffering and pain and finally cross over to joy. And when we finally make that crossover, we are someone stronger, wiser, and someone that holds more depth. It's a place where we face the darkness and learn how to create love within ourselves to pass through it. I've seen some people stuck in this in-between and not make it through. They drown in it, let it overcome them, as if their suffering somehow brings justice to what was lost. Their pain and grief begins to manifest as health issues and gets stored in their body. We can't blame them, because we know what it feels like to be there. Being stuck, looping back over and over, but never quite able to take the steps back to Joy. And why? Do we get stuck because letting go of the grief, pain, or suffering means we let go of the last thing we have of our loved ones? Some griefs are too much to bare for one human soul to manage alone.

Grieve how you can. Sit with it, cry, find stories that you can relate to. Find groups that will grieve with you. Alchemize the feelings that come up into action that can bring meaningful change and purpose to you. Create, draw, make beautiful art and trinkets. Be with yourself, learn about yourself and your intricate parts of you. Honor what was lost and bless it. Then slowly, ever so slowly...look for glimmers. The small glimmers that tell you life can still be wonderful. The sun shining through the window, the way it feels good to take a big gulp of water when you're thirsty, the kindness of people and pets around you. When you feel overwhelmed and drowning again, make small movements and show your body it's ok, nourish yourself, slow down and breathe. Be in the stillness. Rest.

Then one day, you will wake up and feel an ounce of joy again. A small spark that tells you there is capacity for more. You feel you want to go to the park for a walk, or to call a friend, to get back into a routine. You take small steps forward, honoring and grieving again when it comes up, journaling everything in your mind, the stories you can't forget. The grief passes, you choose to finally let go, release, and suddenly joy steps in with love. It's overwhelming at first but joy fills you up and shows you how to live again if you take the opportunity to let it. Life comes back to your chest, the ache dwindles, you feel gratitude again, and soon you realize...

... you've crossed the threshold.