Grieving in Progress

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This is a piece I’ve been working on with the hope of capturing my experience of grief in these early months after the loss of my father. This is not an essay on how it feels to be on the other side of the hurt or the problem. Nothing is mastered here, I do not have 5 bullet point suggestions. It is, as Glennon Doyle calls it, the “messy middle.” I am happy to meet you there.

My father died on a Saturday and by Monday, we were dropping off bags of his clothes to the Goodwill. 

I joked darkly to my mother; “Mom, this is the kind of behavior that looks a bit suspicious after the untimely death of a spouse.” I knew it was just her way. My mother is an anxious planner whereas I am an anxious procrastinator. Not infrequently, I reach for a cup of coffee that she’s already tidied up; it’s dumped, rinsed, and sitting in the strainer. 

Sorting through my father’s belongings would be gut wrenching and she was eager to get it over with, but it went against my nature to move so quickly and efficiently, with such finality. I am the type that takes days to clean a single room because I find myself sitting among piles of memories pulled from forgotten boxes, hemming and hawing about what to keep and what to toss, left with a larger mess than the one I began with.

So of course, when she asked me what items of my father’s I wanted to keep, I said “Yes.” Yes, I would take his Harley Davidson t-shirts, historical fiction novels, fly fishing books that he had not opened in 30 years, every coffee cup. Yes, keep. 

Despite three months in the hospital, I had not expected him to die at only 61 years old. His current ailment could not be captured in a diagnosis, or even a few words. It was an unfortunate culmination of problems; a perfect storm that did not have to be fatal but given the temperature, and the wind direction, and the barometric pressure, there was nothing more to be done. Basically, he could not breathe.

My father died 48 hours after the doctors said they had exhausted the options. He scribbled his own signature giving consent to remove the oxygen and increase the morphine. The very next day, my mother walked me through the home she had shared with my Dad and asked me what I wanted. Could I sift through his books? Did I want the leather University of Texas jacket that I had bought him when I went to graduate school there; never worn because he preferred to keep it pristine? What about his Johnny Cash albums? His favorite picture of me as a toddler that he kept in his wallet for three decades. Did I want this mug? 

As I left her house that day (their house?) my mother asked me to check for something in my father’s car, the car which had already been gifted to my brother. I steeled myself as I leaned into the driver's seat, prepared for what I knew awaited me. The thick smell of cigarette smoke, tinged with an earthiness, like dirt. The scent of my dad. I wanted to bottle that smell; sit it next to the small urn of ashes I would get in the coming weeks. I saw a silver chain looped around the clutch of the car, and I grabbed it. It was the necklace my father routinely wore, inherited from his brother after he himself died too young. Did I want his necklace? Yes. What was the thing I could keep that would feel like holding onto him? Like trying to hold water in my cupped hands, try as I might, it slips away.

My father died, and since then, I have lived in his extra-large t-shirts. My favorite is black with a gray close-up of Johnny Cash. I wear his necklace, sometimes around my neck and other times wrapped three times around my wrist. I drink from a mug with a picture of John Wayne and a quote inside that says, “Courage is being scared to death- but saddling up anyway.” I got a tattoo of a red rose on my bicep, because he had a tattoo of a red rose on his bicep.

My mother could not bear to live among his belongings for even one more day, but I am not afraid to remember. The truth of it has not yet begun collecting dust in my mind. I might be going about my day just fine when the air catches painfully in my own lungs. The feeling is, “I never got around to finishing that.” When I told my mother that I was writing about him, she said “Your dad would be so proud you are finally writing.”

Disclosure: Dr. Amber_Writes is a newsletter designed to be informational, entertaining, and engaging. It is not therapy. Following this newsletter does not establish a therapeutic relationship with me. Dr. Amber_Writes, and other written communication by Amber Groomes on Substack, is not a substitute for treatment, diagnosis, or consultation with a licensed mental health professional. I assume no liability for any action taken in reliance on my writing here at Dr. Amber_Writes.

To read more about the topic of grief, check out these articles that you may have missed:

Meet Your Grief With Self-Compassion

An Invitation to Grieve Fearlessly

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