The Grief Space

I knew Father’s day would be tough. I prepared for it. Dad died exactly 3 weeks before this Father’s Day. I thought if I avoided Facebook, I could avoid the day all together. It’s not like the days leading up to Father’s day weren’t tough either. Emails and advertisements in seemingly neutral stores, even my regular haven, Starbucks, were plastered with “Gift ideas for Dad”. It wasn’t the actual day that was the worst. In fact, my friends are amazing. So many texted that they were thinking of me. I felt loved.

My husband and I were traveling on Father’s Day, and it was the first day my “Silver Status” on United Airlines had ever awarded me an upgrade to first class. I understand there is no amount of explaining I could do that would highlight how important this was for me to share with my father. He was the only person I wanted to tell and I couldn’t. That was the first moment I really understood he wasn’t coming back from that long trip I had convinced myself he had taken.

I think we knew Dad would pass the night he actually did. We stayed the whole day at the hospital that day and stayed extra long that night, longer than any other night. We left my mom at the hospital for the night at 9:30pm and by 10:30pm we were on our way back in to say our final goodbyes to Dad’s body.

At around 10:15pm that night, I was at a friend’s house and I was scooping food onto a plate. I remember stopping for a moment and that voice in my head said, “I love you, Dad.” When I found out 15 minutes later that he had just passed, my intuition told me that the voice in my head was connected to Dad as he passed. I was certain, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that we were more connected in that moment than we had ever been before.

I cried and cried that night and then I didn’t cry again. Not even when I saw his briefcase back at home from the hospital, placed in its usual spot as if he had just arrived home. Not even when I went through his email and text messages to make sure no one was expecting his reply. Not even when people stopped by my parents’ house in tears themselves with a gaze that said “join me in my sadness.” I didn’t cry much at all during the 9 days at my parents’ home in Boston after Dad died.

And then, after flying from Boston to San Francisco, as the Uber got closer and closer to my own home, I felt the tears creeping in. Then suddenly, all at once, it hit me that I was further away from my dad than ever before. I couldn’t just text him from across the country. There were no more plane rides to see him. He definitely would never pick me up at the airport again. And my memories of him, his books, his car keys, his jackets, would not be waiting for me inside my own apartment. I walked down my driveway and the tears could not be stopped. I cried for an hour. Some angel sent my neighbor to offer her shirt and shoulder to collect my tears. There was so much space between where I physically was and where I left my memories of Dad. I filled that space with tears.

It wasn’t just getting back to California that made me feel disconnected. About two days after Dad died, I felt that strong connection that was gifted to me at his passing, was completely lost. I couldn’t find that intuitive feeling that told me, “Dad is here with you. You are still connected, even though he has passed. No proof required.” The day he passed, I had felt so connected to him before, during and even the day after. I felt him close by. I had signs of his presence: the butterfly that hovered over me in the backyard for an unusually long time, the vacuum that turned itself on with no one around, the visitor that randomly pulled a book pulled from the bookshelf with his own and Dad’s picture on it. It didn’t matter to me if anyone else recognized them as signs of my dad or not because my intuition allowed those signs to bring me comfort.

And then suddenly, the signs stopped. But not because the signs weren’t there. It was because that voice in my head doubted each and every one. It wanted more proof. It wanted it to be more concrete. It was no longer enough to just feel connected. It was no longer enough to just trust my intuition. That voice needed to be certain Dad’s spirit was around. That voice filled the old space where my intuition used to comfort me. And I was disconnected and alone.

That voice stripped me of the only comfort I had after Dad died. It said the most terrible things that I would never EVER say to anyone grieving ever. Here are some things the voice said: “You’re not able to stay connected to Dad.” “I know they talk about staying connected to spirits in the movies, but this is real life.” “You’re not special enough to really deserve to be connected to Dad since he’s passed.” “That used to remind you of Dad, but it’s not a sign, so just ignore it.” “You already got all the signs you’ll get, there’s no more.” “Being connected to people who have died is crazy talk.” “You’re nuts to believe his spirit is around you now.” “If you share with people how you feel Dad around you, they will think you’re insane.”

Then, the voice got really personal: “You caused a mess at work being out so long.” “You are such a nuisance to everyone.” “Your husband is just fixing things because he feels bad for you.” “Might as well keep eating your feelings, everyone expects you to get fat anyway.” “You’re truly lazy at heart, that’s why you keep watching that show about being lazy, Downton Abbey.”

The jerk voice filled all my grief space. I lost trust in my intuition. I stopped connecting to my inner self and stopped trusting the only comforting feelings I could muster up.

But when I came back to California, that grief space was no longer filled with that voice, it was filled with tears. Every terrible thing that voice had said was washed away, and the space overflowed with tears. And it wasn’t much longer until the tears started to evaporate and I had a new clean grief space again.

I took myself to the park. I sat there alone in the middle of the field and just looked out. I watched the bees hop from flower to flower in the grass. I tried to memorize the brilliant green color of the trees against the brightness of the blue sky. I listened to the birds. I didn’t care if I looked crazy just sitting there, staring into the space. And then, out of nowhere, I saw a butterfly just as I had seen the day after Dad had passed. I said a quiet, “Hi Dad,” and trusted my intuition for the first time in a week that we were, in fact, connected.

The butterfly flew away like most do. Before that voice could wiggle its way in to try to convince me it was just a regular insect, the butterfly turned around and headed back towards me. Then, around my head and out again. Then, it landed down on the grass. If I looked hard enough, I could see it resting in the grass. It popped back up in the sky, then head towards me, then around my head and back out again. It continued this loop for 10 plus minutes. This had to be a sign. Wasn’t it? Regardless of proof or not, I had thought of Dad just then, and maybe that was joyful enough. By the butterfly’s 16th or so trip around, I began to think maybe it really was Dad, but it felt silly to believe it.

Just to be absolutely sure that the voice couldn’t pipe back up and talk me out of trusting myself, I got my real sign that I wasn’t crazy. I got a sign that I was more connected than I could have thought. While I was staring at the butterfly, a woman staring down at her phone, came up with her dog, completely oblivious to the fact that she was standing far too close to me in such a large, open park. She started to throw a frisbee to her dog without ever taking her eyes off her phone. She was so engrossed in her phone, she didn’t notice she had thrown the frisbee straight to me (in an entirely open park), and when she finally did notice, she didn’t stop throwing it to me even after apologizing. I threw the frisbee out and the dog and butterfly chased it and came back again. It was now clear, that I was much more connected and present than I thought. I was sure to thank my dad that day.

I’m writing this because I know I will need some reminders down the line. Some days, things seem so certain and clear. Other days, the voice in my head takes over and I sit and stew in negative thoughts. I’m really hoping on one of my bad days, someone will refer me back to my own answers that I’m writing here.

The grief space sounds like a terrible dark space, but it’s not a bad space. In fact, the grief space allowed me to see more clearly my own core beliefs and allowed me to trust my intuition. The grief space helped me accept signs that I would have otherwise passed over. As long as I can keep that grief space open, I can access my intuition and can fully trust my connection to Dad. I can keep the grief space open when I am truly present, usually alone, and especially without that voice. I think some call this meditating.

That mean voice still tries to fill my grief space, and makes me think I’m not connected to Dad. I really miss Dad. I like the feeling of his presence around. I like thinking things are signs from him. It brings such comfort. So, for now, I thank the voice for its visit and send it on its way. I remind it that I don’t need proof. This grief has gifted me a space to be truly trust my intuition. Now, even when I think of Dad, I know that I’m connected.

By the way, in case you weren’t convinced, I am, and so were at least a dozen of my friends and family. Dad definitely gifted me that upgrade on Father’s Day. Thanks Dad, love you.