GREIF*

GRIEF

It’s been a long time coming.

And to be quite frank, it’s rather difficult to track the true beginning of it all. 

There’s no one moment that defines the onset of the journey, instead I liken it to a slow descent to an unfamiliar norm. Behaviors slowly altered and stormy clouds began to coalesce, shifting moods and thoughts, foretelling of a fog that laid ahead. Morose were the attitudes at home, as we set off into uncharted waters. A procession at pace we could not dictate, but one we were forced to remain lockstep.

At times, without warning, the winds would hasten, fits and frantic happenings like a squall upon us within an instant. Forgive me my nautical musings, but a sense of drowning feels quite fitting. If you’ll indulge me just a bit more, I feel as if I’d like to settle the score.

Like I said, it’s been a long time coming. 

These thoughts are three months shy of the two year anniversary from his passing. But the grief has been much longer. See dementia is a shit hand to be dealt. For him. For us. There was a loss, and then the loss, and here we remain at a loss.

Grief. It came in stages. The emotions I wrestled were attached to each moment of loss. Back again each time, for round two, round three. He combatted his disease, destined to succumb; I grappled with my inner turmoil, determined never to tap out. 

My world shutdown before the World shutdown.

That seems a bit dramatic. To be honest, the changes were miniscule at first. Quicker to anger, harder of hearing, slower to recall. One might chalk it up to the passage of life. 

We all age. Father Time remains unbeaten. 

Something was off and he knew it first, retiring shortly thereafter. Recent memories were fleeting, confusion was common. There was an uneasiness about him, as if appointments and promises were needed to be fulfilled, yet nothing of the sort was actually expected. I was back home to help out. Taking care of the old man. He’d have done the same for me. In fact that’s all he ever had. 

My biggest challenge was witnessing a reckoning. My father was in the midst of an inevitable deterioration, one he was fully aware of, yet powerless to forestall. And there I was equally helpless to assist, father and son negotiating this new reality and shifting dynamic. The irritation from both of us was palpable, even more so from my father as he struggled to accept his dependency on what I could provide. An anger was present in the early days of our new struggle. One born from the disease, but lashing out at us all. It felt as if he couldn’t accept the burden I had assumed, and displayed frustrations through his reluctance to listen to my advice or soothings. That was always his assignment, his responsibility. And yet here we were thrust into a role reversal neither of us had any agency in controlling.

How could I get him to calm down? He needs to listen to me. I can’t let him leave the house. He wants to leave the house. Why isn’t Mom picking up the phone? Damnit. Pop, it’s alright. You won’t be late. Let’s just sit down. Here, let’s eat. Why won’t he eat? Shit. He needs to eat.

Deep breath. Relax.

The mind would race, emotions spike. Panic would arrive in spurts. Uninvited, intrusive and unrelenting. Before I knew it, the man who raised me was gone, yet still he remained. The epitome of intellect, flanked by towering walls of tomes and novels, replaced with a shell of his former self surrounded by growing stacks of those same books gathering dust. Present, yet absent. 

That was my first loss.

I had to navigate the pain of loss with the requirement of assisting. Not to be confused with a burden, but a duty. Each interaction served a stark reminder of what I could never regain. There was an overwhelming need for an embrace that would never match past embraces. A longing for conversation that could never replicate chats once had. I would hug him and he felt weak and frail, should I have squeezed too hard it was if he may shatter. I would sit and talk to him, longing for the times when I could talk with him.

Those good ol’ Five Stages made their fated appearance. I couldn’t accept this new reality. I was pissed, I sought answers. Why is this happening to me? How can I make it right? A deep sadness soon encompassed my mentality. I would retreat to my room when it all became too much to bear, never wanting to release the stream of tears that welled inside in the company of my folks. An extra burden, this one I could control and spare them of my sorrow.

In order to push forward you must adapt and accept. This was my new normal. I didn’t have the liberty to wallow and lag behind. I had tasks that needed completing, a mother to support through the ultimate test of her vows. My body became autonomous from my mind. Actions on repeat to start and end the day. Lift. Rotate. Stand. Hold. Pull. Clean. Lift. Down. Get him settled, go downstairs and take a breath or shed a tear. But a break was never truly a break. I was forced to stay attuned to the rhythms above. Panicked footsteps, a loud band, a call to action. Right back at it.

My mind became infected with an idea. I had lost him once, I would again. Just kept on waiting till that time, The End.

Even the house took on a robotic feel, as new constructs kept popping up. The med bed, the stair chair, that sling thing. Contraptions and devices. With the world outside at a pause, the home took on a semblance of a well-oiled machine of perpetual, monotonous routine.

Strangers and friends occasionally fluttered in and out. Sirens hailed the arrival of bright red trucks of CFD, shortly followed by the EMTs to haul him off to those certified MDs.

Upon return from one of those visits, his eyes would shut, never to open again. Eleven days and eleven nights he persisted. A faint breath, a rattle, the only hint he still remained. 

This was my second loss. The loss.

I remember the house feeling crowded that evening. A few visitors had stopped by in the waning hours, bringing dinner and prayers. In total, we were just seven, but still it felt as if it was a packed house. Disrupted was the normal I had grown accustomed to. Myself, my mother, and my father. 

I remember two more strangers. A sight ingrained; these nameless, faceless individuals hauling a large black bag. The totality of a life long lived zipped up and carried off into the dark of night. Down the stairs, through the back, and finally out of sight.

Those are the two things that stick with me. The claustrophobia, my space invaded, and that bag. That long black bag.

What happened next, I’m really not quite sure. Just an emptiness and sadness fills the void of memory. The grief struck fast, it hit hard. An expected end still shook me to the core. That first night was rightfully dreadful, and so was the next. But before I knew it, the formalities commenced. I had only told two people, both of whom would attend as well as a few others as word began to spread. I cried with my sisters, I mourned with our friends, and once the ceremony of our farewells ended I felt a reprieve.

Released from that monotony. No longer would I be required to perform those actions on repeat.  No lifting. No pulling. No holding. No cleaning. I could lay in bed and shut out the world above, no fear of a need to jump at a moment's notice or waken from a sleep from a shouted plea for help. It was as if I could finally breathe again. The routine had been smashed, the constructs at home soon abandoned or dismantled. The world was no longer on lockdown, and soon I could venture out from mine. 

And yet something lacked, an ingredient missing. My third loss had struck, the grief of an incomplete family. My mom was a rock, she hardly did falter. We both had our moments, but always we picked each other up. For all the struggles I felt, hers were much deeper. As I started to feel better when left all alone, it was her loss and her pain that would reawaken my own. I don’t mean that begrudgingly or with any resentment, it was just a testament to our strength of three, my family. Together for every core memory and milestone, a constant unit we remained. Not having that consistency, even in its diminished form the past few years, began to set.

Thanksgiving will not hit the same. On birthdays something always feels missing. And Father’s Day? Let’s not go there, just know that we stay missing him. There’s movies that we shared together, songs that we’ve enjoyed. I can’t touch those right now, but certainly in due time.

My moments of strife did not strike once, nor twice, but thrice. I had thought of my grief as arriving in instances, without acknowledging its persistent existence. I had simplified my experience to moments in time. Losing a connection, then losing the man, losing what felt like my sanctuary, my family. 

It’s harder to lose something that remains right in front of you. While complete absence is its own pain I’d come to learn, seeing someone whither away while incapable of inspiring a delay feels like a cruel taunt from fate. Once he passed, it seemed much simpler, your standard grief of loss. But the prior setting, a day-to-day reminder of what once was, needing care and help, served as a constant pang I was unable to escape.

There were certainly moments of levity and happiness that broke through from time to time. You make the most of what you can. Bonds were strengthened and solidified. A shared pain forged an even stronger closeness between my mom and I. This bond is one that honors my father's love and loss. Those years of pain and sadness have in a way transformed into a blessing. The three of us at home. A family in crisis. We grew ever stronger united in the struggle. 

Time heals all wounds, that’s nothing new. That experience, as grueling as it was, will serve me. I cannot let it be wasted. A new motivation has sprung up in me, a legacy to maintain. From this day forward both pain and grief are repurposed for the fuel I need to continue on his trajectory, the path he laid before me.