And the Grief Goes On

Grief Beyond the First Year

Photo by Levi XU on Unsplash

This past Sunday was my third Father’s Day without my dad.

The first Father’s Day came only a month after he had died. In many ways, I was still protected by the numbing effect of new grief. We were on vacation at the time, and I remember sitting by the pool and thinking of Dad. I felt tired and sad, but also really grateful that he was no longer suffering. The last month of his sickness had been so hard on us both.

The second Father’s Day in many ways was worse. At that point, I had been in grief long enough to know how deeply I missed the man who raised me. Everything seemed to remind me of him. Every football game, boat, Hawaiian shirt, and bowl of ice cream made me think of Dad.

By this stage, I had been sad enough, long enough, that I tried to run from feelings. That Father’s Day, I kept busy — volunteering at church, doing things for my husband, organizing my sock drawer. You name it, and I did it to try and escape my grief. Not that it really worked.

This year was a little better. More happy memories than sad memories came to mind when I thought of Dad. I felt more grateful than heartbroken.

But there was something else. Two plus years after losing Dad, I began to realize he was going to stay dead, and I was going to live every day I had left without him.

This realization began to hit me when my daughter graduated from college. I wanted so much to tell Dad that she had finished her journalism degree and was graduating with honors. But no Dad would answer the phone when I called the first phone number I learned by heart.

Then my daughter flew to New York City for the summer. Dad had lived in Jersey for a few years while in the Air Force. I kept thinking how tickled he would be that she was somewhat following in his footsteps. I could almost hear him telling her how good the pizza was going to be.

And then Father’s Day came, and all the things I wanted to tell him began to pile up. “Your grandson has a job doing contract work for the Air Force. He is working in aviation just like you and Grandad.” “Oh, and we saw the great-grands the other day. They are getting so big.”

I had all these words to share and nowhere to put them.

Now, I do believe somewhere, somehow, Dad exists and is aware of the ups and downs of our lives. I can feel him being proud of us from afar.

But I also really wish I could see his crooked smile one more time and hear him tell me how great he thinks all this good news is.

The reality of missing my Dad for the rest of my life is a lot to bear. Will every happy occasion have a touch of sadness because he and Mom aren’t sharing it with us?

For me, this realization has been the hardest part of this stage of my grief journey. The days of being gut-punched by first-year milestones are over. But a long, lonely highway of ongoing grief stretches out before me.

Photo by Mark Basarab on Unsplash

I seem to be carrying the grief load easier than I once was. But can I carry it for such a long time?

Maybe it will be like those times I go hiking with way too much in my backpack. After the first mile, I start eating snacks and drinking water just to get rid of their weight. Then, I remove my raincoat from my pack and tie it around my hips to shift a bit of bulk downward. By the end, I have removed or redistributed enough items from my pack that I can carry it for the full hike.

I guess what I'm saying is we learn to carry the grief we have.

Where are you on your grief journey? How are you coping with the ongoing ripples of grief?