The Grapplehood of Grief

It’s been two days since my dad’s death and I’m thinking about the strange mental gymnastics of loss.

In truth, I began to gradually grieve my dad long ago—the dad he was, the dad he wasn’t, and the dad he’d never be—especially after dementia set in. Still, this loss is deep, and impermanence is hard for the brain to reconcile.

Someone’s here and then they’re not. How can that be?

Yesterday, when I woke up, my first thought was, “This is the first day my dad won’t wake up.” He was here and now he’s not.

As I made egg burritos for my family this morning, I thought, “Here I am making breakfast. My dad won’t ever have breakfast again.” He was here and now he’s not.

When I got the creamer out of the fridge for my tea, I noticed the expiration date was February 17. The day my dad died. His expiration date.

As I drove to the grocery store today, I thought about the times I went to visit my dad at his memory care home. Even though I’d just spent two hours traveling, I’d often take him for a drive so he could glimpse the outer world. We’d go to a coffee shop or a local store and he’d pick out some snacks and drinks. He struggled with door handles and seatbelts and finding words, but he enjoyed it. He loved making people smile and laugh.

While filling my shopping cart with things that made sense and things that did not, I paused to scan the coffee aisle. A misplaced canister of French Vanilla Café caught my eye. It was my dad’s favorite when I was a kid. I had actually tried (in vain) to find it for him for Christmas—a special treat I could leave with a staff member. And then I’d be able to picture him sipping steamy cups of it from one of those brown plastic mugs.

And there it was. All by itself. An unexpected reminder of a life lived and also lost.

While stark, I don’t think these thoughts are dark or disturbing. They’re evidence that my mind is trying to make sense of this new reality. I’m in the grapplehood of grief. It’s wild terrain without proper signage. All I can do is try to see it through with as much grace and patience as I can muster.