It’s now been 15 years since I lost my Dad. I’m not sure why that one hit me harder than most, perhaps because he was one of the two people that gave me the gift of Life. It’s not like I haven’t lost people or beloved pets before or since – by that point all my grandparents, my godfather and Dad’s older brother, as well as a cousin were gone. Maybe it was because it was the first layoff in my career and I had time to reflect more, as I have recently.

Regardless, it shifted my thinking about life and grief intrinsically. It’s continued to shift as I’ve aged and watched my niece, nephew and young cousins grow up to become teenagers and adults. And as I’ve lost more family and friends.

I see him more as I age. In my brother and nephew, but also in myself – especially in the mirror now that I’m in my 40s. As I’ve aged I often reflect on where he was at that point in his life, positively and negatively. How career and financially wise I’m a little better off, but sadly I never got to marry and raise a family like him. Or how when he was about my age he was about to get divorced and change his life dramatically for the rest of it.

The past doesn’t repeat, but I definitely see rhymes in our paths – so I live pragmatically hoping that I’ll live to 92 like I plan, but also trying to live for today in case I go at or around 60 when he and many of the other significant males in my life died. Each birthday it’s like I have a bell ring out – X more years until you leave this world – what are you doing to make the most of it?

Being on forced sabbatical the last two years has given me time to read, listen to podcasts, and reflect. One of the topics I’ve reflected on a lot has been grief – largely through Anderson Cooper’s podcast on it. Something that they brought up that I’d experienced but had not really processed until recently is – Death isn’t really the end. Your relationship with the people you are about, especially the ones you care about most, continues after their death.

My relationship with Dad is different today than it was 5, 10 or even 15 years ago. I give him more grace, as I’ve failed and experienced challenges I believe he did. I’ve forgiven him for most if not all of the grievances I once held against him. I understand more why he made some choices or did some of the things he did. I’ve come to understand how unrelenting and exhausting life and adulting can be – even more so when you have the blessings and responsibilities of children and a family like he had, which I will never experience. 

I don’t know what lies beyond this world, if anything. I don’t know if there is another place after this that our thoughts pierce the veil. But I talk to him, asking for help or guidance. I don’t talk just to him and the conversations are different based on the type of relationship it was. I talk to my lost pets – how I wish I’d been more mature and took better care of them, even if I likely did the best I could with the resources and knowledge I had at the time. To my beloved friend who left far too young – about how it’s unfair she isn’t here to see her grandkids, while I who have no one still am.

It doesn’t matter if they hear or not, it brings me understanding or closure at times. It helps me process the loss of them from my life. It reminds me to say things and make my intentions clear with those I’ll leave behind. To think about how I allocate the resources I have and when – now when I can see the benefit they provide, or after I’m gone when they may be greater but could be decades from now. Hopefully to live more in the moment as I don’t know how many more tomorrows I will get – and how many times but for the grace of God it’s almost been none already.

It’s odd how death turns people into a snapshot. My cousin and friend were both older than me when they died, but now I am older than they lived to be. It’s strange to think about that. If I get another decade I’ll be older than two of my grandparents. Another 15 years I’ll be older than my Dad. I’ve heard my Mom talk about this with her parents, as she’s now older than both of them lived to be. 

Grief is individual and unending. We don’t know which losses will affect us nor how deeply. The fire from them never really goes out, it only dims. Years or decades letter some random smell or thought or whatever will cause that fire to flare for a moment, as powerful and dominant as it originally was. 

I’ve come to accept it as a sort of blessing. When I dream about my Dad, my ferrets, my Loafy, or someone else I’ve lost only to wake up and realize it was sadly all just a dream – the pain of that loss cuts me deeply again, but it also brings peace. Maybe that’s just the brain’s way of processing something. Or maybe it’s just a brief furlough for them from death, to address some unfinished business, say goodbye, or remind us of their love for us.

Death may be the end of the relationship for them, but not for us. It just changes to grief and we have to navigate this new dynamic until one day, if we’ve lived a life worth living, we cause someone else to grieve. 

I hope to live my life such that it cuts shallow, but wide. That I love fiercely, so those that I do know without a doubt. But also that there is little left unsaid, so while they will get a pang in their heart when they remember I’m no longer here it will quickly be replaced by a wistful smile from a fond memory. And that while I often fail to live up to my ideals of kindness, grace, empathy, and compassion still they – and not my failures – become what I’m remembered for most.

Thanks Dad.
I love you.
I miss you.
I truly hope you’ve found the peace you never could seem to find here.