Two Years

“You’re not over it by now?”

“You’ll get used to it.”

“You’re still talking about him constantly? Let him go.”

“He’s in a better place. Be happy for that.”

“I understand.”

These are some examples of what I’m told when it comes to my grief. Yes- I do realize I’m extremely fortunate to have had a great father until I was 24 years old; however, my pain is still valid. Even though we knew he would die at any moment, the minute it happened was still shocking. Acknowledging these notions wasn’t ignited at the first, second, and even sixth try. Like a lighter sputtering to release a flame on a firework fuse that’s anxiously awaiting to spark, my patience with grief was sporadic at best. 

My father passed away less than a month after my Aunt. Less than three months later, my family dog of almost ten years passed followed by our cat a few months later.  We (my mother, younger sister, and I) moved twice in under a year and I lost one of my best friends whom I’ve known my entire life. Most recently, our friends that are like family’s brave 22 year old son lost his battle with lymphoma Christmas Eve last month. He was like a cousin to me.

Grief is a strange emotion. Years feel like months, months appear to be days, and days transform into memories from happiness not too long ago. Life isn’t the same anymore as any joy acts as a reminder of a major presence missing.

Yesterday marked two years since my father passed away. I thought I knew grief, but I’ve since learned that each person presents a differing aspect to this process. I never knew my mother’s parents. My paternal grandfather passed away in 2009 followed by my grandmother two years afterwards. The grief I hold for them is remarkably different than that of my father. I assumed it would be the same. These past two years were a toss up between the constant pressure of trying to find our “new normal” and coming to the realization that such strides may not come under society’s definition of soon. 

My birthday came fifteen days after the funeral. When my father was at the end stage of dying, he defied all the nurses and doctor’s expectations. What should have been a couple of days in a coma-like state turned into about a week.There was a point where I had to lie and tell my father that we celebrated my birthday. I told him that he can now rest since he was there for it (in case that’s why his brain was holding onto life by the thread to put it simply). We even sang “Happy Birthday” gathered around his hospital bed that was in the living room for weeks. On my 25th birthday, all I wanted was my father back in that bed. I wanted to be selfish and have him there by my side. But life doesn’t work like that. As the haze of going through the first holidays lifted, this second year was harder. The fog has cleared and the realization that my father isn’t coming back set in.

At the beginning of these posts were samples of what we’re told when it comes to dealing with loss. Knowing that they’re in a better place and we’ll see them again IS comforting; however, it isn’t a cure all. Crying when you look at a picture for too long IS acceptable. Even though there are people out there who have it way worse and we should always be thankful for any good in our lives, our grief is still legitimate . It took me two years to realize that. I hope it’s sooner for those just now dealing with loss.