Waves of grief are powerful in ways that can only be felt. Those waves that take down the ship leaving only rubble in its wake. I wrote in part one about those kinds of waves. We don't see every wave coming. Some surprise us. Some knock us down. Some hit us with a gentle force. And, sometimes, we can see the waves off in the distance. We see the build - a gradual swell. We know something is coming. We feel the slow burn of anticipation.
Anticipation - an exhilarating but cruel and finicky emotion. It can be filled with so much excitement and joy. The anticipation of graduation - of getting a new dog - of a proposal and marriage - of being out of school for the summer - of seeing your favorite band in concert - of a vacation - of a new season - of celebrating the holidays with family.
For me, celebrating Christmas with family has always been something I have enjoyed. Growing up, my parents hosted the annual get together. My nanny, aunts, uncles, cousins - they all came. I would frantically clean my room while listening to my cassette of classic Christmas songs - a little Bing Crosby and Dean Martin serenaded me every year. The smell of baked beans, pine candles, and potpourri filled the house. As the time for the family to arrive drew close, I sat crossed legged by the front door anticipating the next color of car - shouting out my guess like a game [it was a game]- hoping it belonged to someone we knew.
But these past 7 months have been full of the cruel kind of anticipation - of dread. The kind consisting of slow building waves - the waves I know are coming before I even see them. I know I need to prepare and develop a plan of attack. Or maybe I don't know that. I just feel all the anxiety and emotion and questions as it builds. And I don't know if they are going to knock me down and take me under or hit me with a gentle blow and fade away. These are the anniversaries, the birthdays, the holidays, the traditions, etc. I don't know what to expect. I just know to expect something.
Before we even left the hospital the day my dad died, I already anticipated how hard Christmas would be. The past few years I had offered to host the family for Christmas - to allow my mom to just show up instead of hurriedly cooking and cleaning and decorating. For the past few years, my dad had been right there with me through all the prep and planning and decorating. I missed his presence months before Christmas was even a blip. December was one of the hardest months of my life, trying to plan and host without my number one fan and supporter. The weeks before we celebrated hit me with the pummeling wave kind of grief. But the actual day we celebrated - it wasn't the hardest day out of the whole month. It was the anticipation of a Christmas without him that hurt the most. I won't delve into the full wave of holiday grief in this post- that kind of grief demands more time.
I wrote in another post about the day I went back to Lowe's (the place where my dad was dying) and the anticipation I felt prior to that moment [and even while being present in the moment]. And that actual moment did not knock me down. That wave of grief hit me but rushed right over. I didn't let that wave build. Instead of waiting for the right time or the one year mark, I met that wave head on and it did not gain enough momentum to take me under.
The one week anniversary wave was a rough one. It was not gentle. I had not gone back to work yet. I watched the clock on my phone while still lying in bed. When the clock struck 11:04 AM I was taken back to Lowe's. I experienced every single moment all over again. I heard every word spoken. I saw every movement. I saw the drops of sweat. My heart raced and my arms were so heavy and tingly, almost numb. I cried and I cried. And I gave myself time to come down from that moment.
I cried at work a few weeks ago. Valentine's Day cards had been taken down and Easter cards had gone up. I walked over to turn on the radio and, staring at me, was this monkey card with big blue letters "APRIL." It hit me. April. My dad's birthday. I became overwhelmed with the realization I wouldn't be going out there to carefully select the perfect birthday card for him - a mix of dry humor and the special relationship between a dad and daughter. Dad and I didn't do sappy cards. We picked cards that captured our personalities and relationship. The goal was to get the laugh and the head nod expressing "yep, that's you or yep, that's me. That's perfect. Where'd you find that?" I wiped my tears away and went back to work with no one the wiser.
But the closer we get to his birthday, the anticipation builds. My mom keeps talking about it. I have cried every day this week thinking about him. I have missed him terribly. I have missed having someone just get me. I miss being at ease in someone's presence. I miss feeling loved and accepted...even appreciated. I miss talking and laughing and planning with my dad. I miss his voice and humor and welcoming nature. I miss his advice. I miss my dad. I have been asking myself and googling "how to celebrate someone's birthday who has died" - Celebrate? Yikes, yeah is that even the right word?
This year is extra tough because his birthday falls on Easter - a day of celebration. I'm still searching for a church home and trying to figure out where I want to attend Easter service. Really, I just don't even want to go, but I know that's not what I need. I may go back to his church but I am not sure I can handle the emotion I will feel seeing people who he saw every Sunday. I want to find a way to honor him and remember him and start a tradition for his birthday.
I don't know what anybody else wants. Grief affects everyone differently. My mom wants to go to the cemetery. That's all I really know. I get the impression the sadness will overwhelm her and she may not be up for anything more. It's Easter Sunday so my brother and his family may be busy with all of those activities. I want to find a place for the sadness and find a place to smile and honor him. He's my dad and he will never stop being a part of me and I guess that's worth "celebrating."
I like the idea of the floating lanterns - you know it was beautiful in Tangled. But I read they're bad for the environment and who knows where they end up. Plus, if we get together with family it won't be at night. I read about this flying wish paper being a good alternative to the lanterns. I ordered a pack off Amazon today. I don't know if we will use it, but I will - even if it's a tradition I start alone in my backyard.
I spoke in therapy how I was writing about the waves of grief. Her questions inspired this part two of the pummeling waves of grief. She helped remind me that not all waves are bad. There are even waves that bring joy. This should come as no surprise. Beach goers and surfers enjoy waves every day. I even enjoyed the ocean waves before one took me under. But you know what? It didn't take very long before I was back out in the ocean and smiling as smaller waves smacked me in the chest and faded toward the shore.
After those initial monumental waves of grief, there came a day when the intensity lifted. I don't remember the day. I still get hit by pummeling waves that take me right back under but I find I can usually catch my breath before another one. And, in between, the waves aren't as powerful. Some days I even get hit with a wave of happiness - a moment of joy or a moment where I feel like myself - a moment I feel hopeful again.
And right on cue, driving home from therapy, I experienced one of those waves of happiness - the ones you hope you can ride out for a little while. The temperature was perfect to drive with the AC off and the sunroof open. The sun was shining so I could wear my sunglasses. I was flipping through stations on my XM radio, not finding a song I really liked. I stopped it on one of the pop stations. It was playing Ed Sheeran "Overpass Graffiti." It's not a favorite song or one I listen to much, but I liked it better than the other songs playing at the time. And there was a moment - a brief moment - as I was driving the back way home when it all just felt right. Was it a specific note or interplay of notes and production? I felt happy and hopeful and felt like myself. It occurred at about minute 2:24 (at least of the video) - "I will always love you for what it's worth."
I came home and immediately jumped back into writing about the waves of grief. There are the pummeling waves that hit early on and crash on top of you - one right after the other making it hard to even breathe. There are the pummeling waves that hit out of nowhere - like when I saw the monkey card at work. There are the pummeling waves of anticipation - the ones associated with anniversaries, birthdays, holidays, traditions, etc. Those are the ones we see coming. There are waves that hit you but don't drag you under. Some of the waves don't materialize at all.
And then there are waves of happiness that begin to wash over you. Maybe you see those coming or maybe you don't. Take heart in those waves. Breathe in those moments and ride them out for as long as you can. Another wave of grief will find you on another day. But take note of those days you find your smile again. Take note when you laugh. Take note when the weight of the grief shifts, even just for a moment.
Right now, memories of my dad still bring me to tears more often than they don't. But I do find days when I talk about him or tell a story, and it brings me a smile instead of a tear. I look forward to the day when his presence in our lives continues to bring back the same smiles and laughs and feelings that have caused all these tears.
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