Grief: Two Years Later
Sometimes people ask me what grieving a parent’s death looks like for me. What is it like at first? What does it look like at the year anniversary, etc? The questions vary, but I’ve been asked this in some form, by many different people in the last two years. And I always have the same answer: Ummmmmm… I don't know.
Core Millenial Memory: Getting a Chia Pet
Part of that is because my dad’s death happened at a time when a number of other traumatic things happened in my life. So, my grief around his death has, unfortunately, always been intricately tied to the other losses. But I don’t want to talk about those things right now.
Because right now, I’m having a proper grief moment. About my dad.
As I’m writing this, it is May 10, 2023. His birthday. He died on May 16, 2021, so I am coming up on the two year anniversary of his death. I guess you could say that today kicks off a sort of Holy-Week-of-Dad-grief for me, just like it will probably do every year for as long as I have a functioning brain.
Today, grief looks like shedding tears whilst pondering these things:
I overheard my kids playing in the backyard this afternoon. They didn’t know I was listening. Somehow, my youngest son got the opportunity to make a wish (something to do with catching a leaf?). Without missing a beat, he said aloud, “I wish for Grandpa to come back”.
When I announced to the family at dinner tonight that today was Grandpa’s birthday, that same child (8) told a story about how Grandpa saved his life. Apparently, when he was three, he was “starting to drown” in my parents’ pool, and my dad jumped in and saved his life. He fleshed this out with more details. Apparently, my dad made a “star with his body”, “like a lifeguard” (he stretched his arms out to the side), as he dove in. My older son corroborated this detail. This was the first I had ever heard of this story, but Matt was familiar with it, which leads me to believe that my dad told Matt but was too afraid to tell me because he thought I would freak out or that I’d never let the kids swim in their pool ever again. And that was probably a good call on his part. (Or maybe he did tell me, and my brain instantly repressed it. Also possible.)
I didn’t realize that today is May 10th, his birthday, until the late afternoon. The kids were occupied, I had completed my other blog post I was working on, Matt was gardening, and I had a solid 40 minutes remaining on the frozen lasagna that was cooking in the oven. I had a choice to make: am I going to open up these feelings a little bit; look through some photos, maybe make a social media post about my dad — or should I shut that door and come back to them at a different time? Since I had the time, I consciously decided to let myself open that door. And then I cried pretty much non-stop until I started writing this post, and here I am crying again. And now my eyes hurt.
After dinner, Matt and I were talking about my dad, and I told him that it had been a very long time since I’d cried about my dad. I think about him all the time, and I feel pretty connected to him still. But, when I think about him, I feel happy. I think about jokes he would have made, memories from family vacation when I was a kid, what he might think about my life right now, etc. My dad faced his own death with confidence, a clear conscience, and so much peace. I think for that reason, I have always had so much peace about his death, so that when I think about him, I remember his life. There’s a sense of satisfaction. I imagine the opposite might be that we’d feel like we got robbed of time that we should have had. Because he had peace about it being his time to go, I guess just believed him — that he was right — that it was his time, and that that was okay. Fullness is a word that comes to mind.
Earlier today, I got an oil change on the car he left behind that I inherited, and I thought about how devastated I will be when that car no longer functions, because it helps me to feel connected to him. I think about him every time I drive that car. When I’ve driven to other states for gigs, I imagine him watching me, like he’s in the car with me in some way. I like to think that he is proud of me for pursuing music; that he’s not judging my gigs by how many people attend, or measuring me against what gigs I don’t get, but that he’s happy for his daughter, because she is doing what she loves. We drove that car out to Colorado on a family vacation we took a couple months after he died, and it felt like he came along with us — and that he kept us safe with that four wheel drive, which is so much better in the mountains than our minivan!
We are going to order a plaque for a retaining wall that we named after him. The plaque will say, “Matt Metcalf Memorial Retaining Wall”. Do you want this to make more sense? I don’t know that I can help you. All I can say is: this absolutely feels like something he would have done, and it feels like a perfect way to honor him.
I could go on, but I’ll leave it there for now. Today, grief felt like something on a to-do list. Since I had a big wave of emotions come up, I knew I was going to need to unpack them sometime soon. Then I thought about what I’ve got coming up on my schedule. “When is a better time to feel my emotions — tonight or [early next week]?… Well, I’ve got some appointments on [these days], and then I have that other thing [next week], so maybe it’s better that I take care of this tonight”. It’s not always like that, but that’s what it feels like today. And I’m thankful that I’ve got words, and a place to let them flow (this blog, ha!)
Miss you, Dad.