The strangeness of grief

Don’t judge my ways of grieving

Overcoming grief is a 365-day-a-year endeavor. And the ways I’m doing it range from sad, silly to downright strange. Just when I think I’m going through a day like a “normal,” non-grieving person, I’m blasted by the torrential waves of emotion, buffeted in a deep, deep ocean of private pain.

Involuntary Crying Jags

I was in a board meeting for an organization focused on organ procurement and transplantation. I am reminded of my Dad’s rapid dive into death after acute liver and then kidney failure and feel the pierce of irony that I work with a group that saves lives and my own Dad’s life was cut short. I sob involuntarily. I don’t mean to do this, I think. I want to be here and am grateful to be part of an organization with such a worthy mission: saving lives. And yet my Dad is dead, and I’m in a meeting crying, and I can’t speak.

Rolodex

As I pack up my clothes to catch my flight, I look in my suitcase to see items that really shouldn’t be there. My Dad’s Rolodex is one of them. Yes, the “old-fashioned” Rolodex with paper cards on a plastic holder, tucked into a Ziplock bag to keep the cards from slipping away. My Dad used the Rolodex cards to keep track of every single password for every single online account he set up. Banks, software products, tech support, memberships, every one alphabetical with a convolution of passwords and usernames.

The Rolodex travels with me just in case I need it. Because you never know when someone somewhere will need access to one of the online accounts that I still haven’t gotten around to closing. Because I took on the responsibility of closing down his accounts, sending his death certificate out to anyone who needed proof that he was, indeed, dead. And I have kept a few of those accounts open because it is some of the last remnants of tangible connection to my Dad.

Android Phone

I am an iPhone gal all the way. But I carry my Dad’s Android phone with me. At first it was “just in case someone calls him.” But that rarely happened. Then it was to easily access his emails from anywhere, just in case someone emailed him. But all he receives now are email newsletters that I haven’t gotten around to cancelling yet and accounts I haven’t closed yet.

Voicemail

When I finally shut down his Verizon phone service, I remembered too late that I forgot to listen to his voice mail greeting one last time. I’ve already used iExplorer software to download his remaining voicemails to me off of my iPhone and onto my computer for the time when I’m brave enough to hear his voice again. But I forgot about his voicemail greeting where he spoke in his slow, deliberate way, e-nun-see-ay-ting his words with the care and precision of a former Navy Commander, a former instructor, a former alive person. Not being able to hear his voicemail greeting ever again is devastating to me. I try to hear his voice in my head without accessing the voicemail files. I need to save those for the time that I’m really desperate. And masochistic.

His Hairbrush

Yes, I took my Dad’s hairbrush. It doesn’t really have any strands of his hair left, but I’m sure it has traces of his DNA. My 8-year-old daughter and I take turns brushing our hair and each other’s hair with it. This must qualify as “strange,” but to me, it is comforting.

Swiss Army Knife and Other Random Things

I didn’t want much from what my Dad left behind. But I took small and random things. An old silver ID bracelet with his name almost completely rubbed away. A Swiss Army Knife tucked into a brown leather case. A few pairs of cuff links. A marble paperweight. Tiny random things that are bits of him dispersed amongst my own things. They surface when I least expect it. Like the Swiss Army Knife in my suitcase as I am packing for my flight. A reminder that I’d better check my bag.

Involuntary Crying Jags, Again

Sitting at the airport, waiting for my flight, overwhelmed by a tidal wave of grief. Again. It has been a month and a half since his horrible death. I cry, and nobody around me says a word. So I reach for my computer, and begin to type.