They told me grief comes in waves. I expected an ebb and flow, not placid waters interrupted by a tsunami.
Every once in a while, I forget about the losses. I forget that I’m no longer pregnant, or that I can’t call my parents’ landline to speak with my dad. Inevitably, I always remember. When I do, the reality is crushing, forcing me to experience the death all over again. A million little losses.
I can’t decide which is worse: constantly carrying a low level of grief, or moments of peace interrupted by utter devastation. Would you rather drown gradually or all at once?
My first meaningful experience with grief came in sixth grade, when I lost my grandmother. Without the tools to cope or the opportunity to explain how I was feeling, I spiraled. The first year without her was my first experience with depression. I think of that grief as the stones lining my pockets as I waded into the waters of loss, a millennial Virginia Woolf being drowned by the tide. All encompassing and without a lifeline.
At 17, I lost my grandfather. His spirit long preceded the death of his body, and so the grief was more tempered at first. He died the Tuesday before Thanksgiving, and it did not hit me until the holiday was almost over. After a subdued family dinner, I made the 2-mile drive to my boyfriend’s house but couldn’t make myself get out of the car. I drove in circles for thirty minutes before arriving broken at his doorstep, sobbing into his mother’s arms. “Where were you?” my friend asked when I finally made it downstairs. “You know we’re all here for you.” I didn’t know that. Grief had turned me into an island; I had to be strong for my family, and breaking down wasn’t worth the risk. Once I started crying that night, I truly thought I would never stop.
But I did. As quickly as the tears came, I locked them away after that night. Their only return was at the funeral, and they stayed back until the service was over. This time, I refused to let them drown me.
My grandparents’ deaths were both fairly expected, due to their ages and poor health. Nothing prepared me for losing one of my best friends at 20.
The phone call came at 9 am on a Sunday morning, waking me in a dorm room that wasn’t mine. 15 years later, I still remember everything about that call and the hours that followed–my heaving, tearless sobs that bordered on hyperventilating, the absolute flood that came for me once I confirmed the news on Facebook. It was truly a freak accident, and I had no chance at holding myself together.
I wandered around for the next week or two in a stupor, aware only of basic survival. I leaned heavily on the few friends who showed up as my anchors and pulled away from everyone else. I quit my sorority and, for the first time in my life, asked for extensions from my professors. I tossed a grenade at my love life, which had already been rocky prior to the accident. Looking back, I truly have no excuses for anything other than that I was fundamentally unable to think straight. I was drowning and completely disoriented.
Somehow, as it always does, life went on. My friend appeared to me in a dream that spring and let me know she was okay. There are few things I am as certain of as the fact that this was more than a dream written by my imagination. 15 years later, I still think of it often, and it remains my best evidence that there’s something after this.
Still, losing my father almost drowned me again. Even as an adult, the loss of a parent hits differently. It’s truly like losing a piece of your identity. He went to the ER on Christmas night 2021, and despite living for fifteen months after, spent maybe a week of that time at home. He moved between two hospitals and a few rehab centers, remaining on a ventilator for most of the time. At a certain point, it was like his body just gave up. Suddenly, my mother and I were discussing palliative care options. He died naturally the morning before they were scheduled to turn down his oxygen flow.
The extended hospital stay prepared me in some ways, but I was still taken by surprise when it happened. We’re raised thinking our parents are invincible; although he had been in poor health for years, it still seemed premature. He was 71; I was 35. It was too soon.
It was my busiest time of year at work. He died two days before our annual fundraising gala, and even though many well-meaning friends told me to skip it, I chose to go and distract myself. Each expression of sympathy from a colleague or donor felt like standing at the shore and being caught off guard by an incoming wave. Each person who felt decorum dictated ignoring the elephant in the room felt like I was stranded at sea.
For a couple of months following his death, the only time I could cry was while lying in bed at night. During those moments, memories flooded my mind as the tears flooded my pillow: playing pool in the basement. Him helping my best friend’s mom coach our basketball practices. Driving into the city during the winter to buy Yankee tickets before the season started. The grief was always there, but it became extra acute in those moments. I learned it’s hard to understand if you haven’t lived through it.
While he was in the hospital, my first pregnancy ended in a miscarriage. It was early, but it still stung. The baby would have been due around the 4th of July, a few months after my dad passed away. That summer, it felt like I couldn’t keep my head above the water. How do you mourn someone you never knew? Navigating that felt like I was in the middle of the ocean at night, with no lights to guide me. I still feel the cold splash of an expected wave when I’m around a child of comparable age sometimes.
We experience a million little losses as we grieve, with some larger ones along the way. I’ve learned that the best we can do is to lean into them, to keep swimming parallel to the shore and know that the sudden riptides will pass. Otherwise, they will consume you.
Photo by Tom Caillarec on Unsplash
