Is there still space for grief?
Someone wrote me and told me recently that she lost her mom this year. Her mom was younger than my dad was when he died. My heart sank. There was a moment that I felt her loss so deep and so true, that a little part of me collapsed inside as if the loss were my own again. My heart sinks every time I hear about loss from anyone. It sank when a friend of a friend lost her dad. It sank when my physical therapist lost her son. It sank when I heard about my friend losing her dog. It sank when someone at yoga shared with me the loss of her unborn twins. It’s hard for me not to immediately empathize with the loss created by death. I can’t stop from going deep into that initial gut-wrenching feeling of loss that I felt when my dad left this earth.
After the immediate pure depression that comes from not only losing your loved one, but also losing that part of yourself that was defined by sharing life experiences with this person, comes the roller coaster. For me, the ups were when I felt connected to my dad, when I received his messages loud and clear, I felt unbelievably lucky to have this special gift, this special connection. Then, the downs were the floor-being-swept-out-from-under-you feelings of doubt, isolation and fear: there was no connection, not now, not ever, only loss and being alone without my dad, and left alone on an island even though my mother and brother somehow landed on the mainland.
Over the years, the ups and downs happen still, I just don’t go so high or low and the bumps don’t happen so often either. Most days, I go about my life feeling like my dad is present. I forget he’s gone sometimes because I feel so much comfort and support and love when I think of him. There’s solace knowing he’s sending me that love and support. Every once in a while, I look at his picture and I feel complete and utter gloom and despair. My daughter never knew my dad and never will. My dad will never get to hear about all the things she’s learning and the changes she’s going through. She finds a way to amaze us every day, and he can never be a part of that. He’ll never hold her hand, never take her to the park, never read her a book, never watch her color, never help her learn her ABCs, never FaceTime her, not even see a picture of her.
Even those moments I realize Carina will never meet my dad and my heart caves in on itself. But, we talk about grandpa and how he watches over her and my heart just as quickly fills back up with the love knowing that she has this special gift from him of his constant presence and support and love. There’s joy in the sadness, knowing he already knows what’s happening with her without me needing to call him and tell him, knowing he’s always with us. There’s also sadness in the joy. Having that omnipresent comfort, means he’s always gone from our sight.
Having just heard of the loss of my friend’s mom and being so close to Christmas, I was reminded of my first holiday without my my dad. It was pretty terrible. It was confusing, empty, painful, awkward, lonely, sad. We had recently lost my uncle also. I remember the Thanksgiving table being set for 12 people. We used to have large gatherings. And then I remember the sorrow and pain when we all sat down and it ended up being just 5 of us. And one chair in particular so empty, draped with an oversized picture of my dad, the irony of its enormous size, dwarfed when compared to the loss of the person who used to sit there.
I remember looking over at the vase he had received the year before as a gift. He asked me to get flowers to fill it. Why did I leave it empty the first year without him? It seemed so much more empty knowing he had found such satisfaction in once having it filled.
I remember recalling two years before he passed that when he pulled me aside and told me he wanted to show me how to carve a turkey. I’m vegetarian. It was as if he had come to terms with his inevitable death and needed to pass along this information so we could somehow continue on without him. I took pictures of the process but I regret every day not taking a video. Those pictures are priceless to me now; although, I haven’t worked up the heart to actually carve a turkey like he taught me.
The first Christmas without dad felt like we were going through the motions. My dad always got the best gifts, and now I wanted nothing. I wanted no part of any reminder of what I had lost. I managed to scrape together some optimism and receive some gifts from him even though, they weren’t the wrappable kind. The sadness was overwhelming. I tried to keep it together for everyone else, but every moment was just an oversized sigh waiting to happen, waiting to exhale all the sorrow out of my heart. We sat at the table for 12 as a party of 5 again, still trying to fill the void but finding ourselves engulfed in silence. I cried close to a million tears that night, and lit the same candles for him that I had lit the weeks surrounding his death.
The second Christmas, my daughter was born and I could focus on her fully and embrace the joy there. But that damn empty seat at the dinner table. The weight of the emptiness didn’t fade from my heart, not one bit.
So here we are, coming up on the third Christmas without dad. I was planning on avoiding all sadness by focusing on my daughter. That is until my friend wrote and told me about her mom. And my empathy brought me back to the first holidays without dad. And I wondered if there is space for my sadness too this year. It has already been 3 years. I knew my friend would have a tough holiday, it was her first, but I have 2 more years of experience in there. It was her turn to be sad. My turn had passed. So, why doesn’t it feel that way?
I think back on Thanksgiving this year and think of all the misdirected anger and sadness. The outburst at my mom about the extra place settings at the table, the sitting around day after day in that state of mourning, that numb state, not wanting to reach out to anyone. I pushed away the obvious pain, convinced myself I’m fine with it all, I’ve already come to acceptance with his passing, it was time for the “new normal” and time to be fine with it.
It feels highly uncompassionate to tell myself I don’t get to be as sad year three as I was year one. It feels like someone is smothering my sadness, slowly letting it suffocate, scrambling, gasping for air. I guess my grief needs to breathe some. My grief needs more space than year one. It needs permission to be just as devastating on Christmas three without my dad as it was the instant he died. It doesn’t want to be pushed away or forgotten, tucked away or covered in joy. It wants space to be present, and space to be present years from now too.
To my friend whose mom just passed, I’m so sorry. I’m sorry this year Christmas is probably going to feel empty and lost. And I wish I had better news, I wish I could say it will get better as the years pass. I thought it would. It turns out, it hasn’t gotten better yet, and I’m so sorry.
I guess the good news is that in general, I can see the change my grief has gone through over the past two-and-a-half years. I’m not shrouded in sorrow every waking moment. The joyful moments don’t feel guilt-ridden. I answer “how are you?” without batting an eye. Not every moment is so much of a challenge anymore.
And, maybe at some point every holiday won’t be such a challenge either. Right now, it certainly still is. But, maybe it’s also ok to allow sadness into the holidays when it wants to be there. I’m finding that the more space I give the sadness to exist, the less space it takes up in my heart.
So, who knows how this Christmas will go. Maybe Christmas Day will be ok. Maybe it won’t. There’s only thing I know for certain: right now in the days before, I’m feeling a big loss. And it wants some space to breathe.
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