It’s all a bit tricky

I wish I had more to bring you than a post a month. Or even every 45 days, but things aren’t happening to me the same way these days then when my dad was dying. Back then, time mattered. Then, weeks were significant chunks of time, days mattered. Now, between COVID-19 and the loss of my dad, time moves by differently.

I cannot believe he’s been gone four months. He slips away from me each day, and yet here I am, still living in a world (mostly) closed by a pandemic, unable to move forward. On one hand, I am grateful to being confined to my four walls, more or less. I can control my life here, the inputs, my excursions, the spikes of pain are manageable. On the other - what else can I do? I can’t escape, I can’t luxuriate in Parisian shops and cafes, I can’t discover Amsterdam and meet my friend’s new baby (or any of the babies I can’t wait to meet across the globe!), I can’t hug my brother and drink too much wine with him over fondue in Switzerland. Instead, I am in a place where I don’t want to be around people who weren’t with me while he was sick, and yet I’m scared to be with the same people for fear of remembering everything. Those two and a half months, those ten weeks: trying to soak in my dad, trying to ignore his dying, the smells from his g-tube, begging with him to just take the drugs to ease his pain. Going home each night, praying he’d pass quietly in the night, only to wake up and do it all over again.

Inertia. That’s what I hated about those days and what I hate about now.

On the other hand, I absolutely love the inertia. If I experience nothing new, it means that my dad isn’t missing out on them. If I fall in love, if I make a career move, if I re-paint my house, all of these things I do without my dad. If I take a motorcycle class and discover how much fun it is, I do it knowing I can never share the fun with my dad. Oh. Yeah, I did that one. I’d give anything to have learned how much I love motorcycles five years ago, and been able to ride around with my dad. Fuck.

It’s weird. I do things that I know my dad would enjoy/approve of/did in an attempt to keep close to him, and yet it’s like emotional cutting, dredging up feelings of longing, of loneliness. A scooter ride in the summer morning (I did pass my test!), taking care of my garden, a “roadie” in a red solo cup. Trying to summon up his confidence in my own actions, trying to see my own worth/intelligence/capabilities the way I know he did. It’s all a bit tricky: some require a little flexing of the rules, or a little flexing of an ego I’m trying to cultivate. Which then, in turn, brings up a sense of lacking: how could my dad have been so confident, whereas I have to pep talk myself to no end, psyching myself up?!? Why do I have anxiety that sometimes leaves me unable to function beyond personal hygiene and Netflix some days, and my dad was able to run his own business, make decisions about farms, investments, etc., and still find the energy / life to hold court with all his family and friends? I feel so inadequate.

I wish I could have been more honest with him. It was literally two days before he died that I started talking to him about my anxiety, why sometimes the best course of action for me was to remove myself from situations and go to bed. We skimmed the surface, but it was as though he had been seeing me as someone who was rude and unwilling to connect with people, when in fact I was just trying to hold it together. He was so willing to listen to me, and was so open to hearing about my experience - he heard me. How long had he thought that I was acting like a bitch, when in fact I was just trying to survive? Why hadn’t I been more open with him when I had the time? Put this in the regret column, and heartbreak of conversations never had.

So what brings me life, among all these feelings of loneliness, sadness and regret? The tomatoes I’m growing. My family, my friends, my dog. The people who recount memories of my dad. My scooter. A lamb recipe from Ottolenghi. Will Ferrell and Rachel McAdams for giving us the file Eurovision Song Contest movie on Netflix (the soundtrack, too!). Books. The smell of rain. An iced coffee before 7am. I keep a daily journal, a gratitude list. My grief group. I swear, they generally work. So does crying a lot, and leaning into being sad, and missing my dad. It’s counterintuitive, but it’s the only way to move forward. A good cry one night can mean an energized day the next (or two days later, depending on the level of grief). Owning and embracing the sadness and tears can seem scary at first, but I’ve learned that it’s the only way to move it through, to help myself to keep going. Living fully (which includes feeling sad and angry and crappy, in addition to all the good things in life) is the only way I know how to honor my dad. He’d want it no other way.