When losing a parent is complicated
When a parent dies and it's complicated
The day before my dad died a few Sundays ago, it was so cold in my house I spent the day upstairs in my bedroom huddled under the blankets. Instead of going to visit him in the rehab facility he’d been moved to from the hospital during the week, I opted to bundle up and work on my book and eat grapes wrapped in my bedding.
Actually, I preferred making the 90-minute drive to see my dad on Saturdays, because it gave me all day Sunday to go food shopping, do laundry and mentally prepare for the workweek ahead. I’d gone down the weekend before on Saturday and didn’t get out of my pajamas until midafternoon the following day.
But my sister has Sundays off from work and having her keep me company —and, frankly, commiserate with — beats having a lazy Sunday. Over the last two years, we’ve made that drive down to Wilmington, Delaware countless times and had covered a lot of emotional territory speeding down the New Jersey Turnpike.
Of course, we also talk a lot about the crap we’ve just bought and then buy whatever the other had just purchased for ourselves. A friend recently pointed out that with sisters, it goes beyond, “Hey, I like that top,” to “WHERE DID YOU GET THAT I NEED IT RIGHT NOW.”
One of our dirty little secrets is that often, we'd leave having lunch with our dad and stepmother and then hightail it to the nearby Terrain (Anthropologie's home and garden store) and walk around for a half hour touching things. Usually, we wouldn't even buy anything, just point things out to each other and provide commentary. I think it's our love language.
But those long drives also gave us a lot of time to unpack our family. I don’t write about it a lot, or even talk about it much, but my family is complicated as fuck. It is crazy sticky and honestly, upsetting for someone who really just wished for a Marcia Brady kind of existence. I know that’s not real but also, it’s what I longed for growing up.
It’s taken me a really long time to get over the fact that that’s not what the universe handed me 56 years ago, and I’m being really generous right there implying that I have actually achieved that level of acceptance. Let’s just say that after years of therapy and working a 12-step program, I’m still at the “awareness” stage. Like, I understand the limitations of all the players involved, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t lie in my bed at 2 a.m. torturing myself over how unfair it's all been.
As (annoyingly) predicted by my beloved therapist, Jennifer, the passing of a loved one does not bring an end to the complicated feelings we have around them. In fact, death can really tighten that tangled knot of emotions we cling to. Right now, I can feel the weight of it caught in my throat. It’s like I’ve gotten to the end of the Rockin’ Rollercoaster ride at Disney World — that drops and spins you around in the dark with flashing lights and loud music — and am like, “Wait. What just happened?”
I’ll be honest, I don’t know what else to say right now. It’s too soon. The thousands of words I’ve written recently on the subject bear testament to how raw my feelings still are. And even though I really like you guys a lot, I think those thoughts would do better with a trained professional and not posted on the internet in perpetuity.
My dad used to tell me to “stop looking in the rearview mirror.” He was not one to dwell in the past and didn’t understand why I always wanted to talk about things that happened 40 years ago. Why I couldn't just let go. True to his Irish Catholic roots, he felt it was better to shove it all under the rug, forget any of it happened, and move on. And maybe that could be filed under “avoidance,” or maybe that’s a softer and easier way to go through life. I’m still not sure.
AA has this thing called The Promises, which is often read at meetings, and as much as my thinking doesn’t always align with all of AA’s old-timey literature, I really love this piece. It talks about all the blessings sobriety will bring into your life — peace and serenity, freedom and happiness, suddenly knowing how to handle situations that used to baffle us. And not to brag, but a lot of these things have really come true since I stopped trying to fill that gaping hole in my heart with booze. Who knew?
Right at the top of The Promises, we are told that “we will not regret the past nor wish to shut the door on it,” and I think therein lies the secret. To accept what happened, and move on. To view all my experiences as the gifts they have been for making me the person I am today. I'm not perfect but I'm a lot better than I used to be.
One of my dearest friends, who was in the process of losing his own dad recently, helped me find the grace I needed to give myself this week. We were texting back and forth and he offered that maybe this resurgence of emotions comes from stuff I haven't let go of yet. That my dad's passing might be the start of (finally) having some closure. Maybe it won't come all at once, not at one single moment, but rather at my own pace if I let it.
That brings me comfort, framing this not as a major emotional setback but instead, as part of the healing process.
In the meantime, I'm writing. And praying. And trying to keep the crazy ruminating to a minimum. I'll let you know what happens.
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SUNDAY SHARES: Read, watch, cook, buy
I’m not gonna lie: few things have brought me any joy over the last few weeks, other than the bag of milk chocolate hearts with Reese’s peanut butter filling leftover from Valentine's Day that I keep stashed in my freezer. Here’s a rundown of February’s highlights:
I just got tickets to see Beyonce with my two daughters in Philly this summer, so that’s pretty fucking great. There was a time when my younger daughter and I would watch the Homecoming movie on Netflix while eating dinner (or whatever) and every time, we’d start crying from the get go (tbh I just watched the trailer I linked to and got teary-eyed). When Beyonce starts strutting down that long Cochella stage out into the audience, we lose our shit. So seeing her in person should be a sob fest for the two of us and the older daughter will be there to bear witness to the insanity.
My older daughter flew up to keep me company after my dad died and we, too, speak the shopping language of love. We roamed around Target and I came upon the TikTok bowl plates of my dreams and they have brought me joy with every TikTok-inspired salad I've eaten since.
I went with a pal last night to see the Oscar-nominated documentary shorts and today we're going back to see the animated selections. Outstanding. The docs' subject matter is so wide-ranging — from elephant keepers in southern India to a would-be terrorist to a dad documenting his daughter on her birthday over 17 years. If you can, go.
I finally started watching Better Call Saul and halfway through Season 2, I get what all the hype was about. If you’ve been meaning to watch but never got around to it, NOW IS THE TIME.
I started reading Barbara Kingsolver’s “Demon Copperhead,” and that, too, is living up to its hype. The problem is that by the time I get into bed (at 9:30), hopped up on a double dose of melatonin and a big scoop of Calm powder in my Sleepytime tea, I’m out in like 10 minutes. I need a better system.
Oh, this one is big, I reached GENIUS level this week AND last week in The NYTime’s Spelling Bee game. That brought me intense joy, so all is not lost.
xoAmy
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