Grieving

March was a dark month. As the month began, my dad just learned that his cancer had spread from his lungs to his bones, his abdomen, and his brain. His cancer was now terminal.

Although, it always had been. He was already signed on to do some form of treatment for the rest of his life, until the options ran out. It didn’t make it any easier to accept when that news came. He was out of options.

Because of all the drugs to manage his pain, he was told on multiple occasions that he was dying. And it was like he was learning for the first time, every time.

It only took 13 days in hospice for him to be gone. My dad left us peacefully in the morning on Sunday, March 26th, 2023. Sunday was always his day. It felt like he went on his own terms.

When the calendar turned, I rang in April with so much hope. Looking forward to spring and all of the promises of new beginnings.

As if it’s possible to have 30 days of bliss kick off just one week after my dad died. How foolish of me.

I sit here on April 8th with what my therapist describes as a pile of rocks in my chest.

I was reading the New York Times this morning. A few months ago, I decided to treat myself to the novelty of receiving a physical newspaper at my door step on Saturdays and Sundays. My dad loved the Post, which we always made fun of him for. (This isn’t real news, dad.) He often cut out comics, horoscopes, or pictures that made him laugh or reminded him of our family. He’d hang them on the fridge. Sometimes, it was my brother’s name from a funny headline — “Zach Attack”. Or a funny about a wife’s disdain for her husband prioritizing football over house cores. It was one of his quirks that made him dad.

This morning, I saw an image and thought to myself, I should cut that out for the fridge. And then it hit me, that is something my dad would say. And then the tears came.

Grief makes itself known in the silliest, most unexpected ways. I miss my dad and his newspaper clippings.

It doesn’t help that 2 days ago, I had another surgery. This procedure was a step in the right direction — leading me to more healing and progress. But today, I’m a bit sore, bandaged and bleeding, and my emotions always seem to be so raw and unregulated post-anesthesia.

My jaw surgery recovery is the most challenging thing I’ve gone through. Until it wasn’t. Until my dad died.

I will allow myself to ride these waves of grief.

I will give myself grace, and self care, and not place unrealistic expectations for what this next season of life should feel like.