That being said, I feel like it's time for some real transparency. Despite my honesty, I often feel like I have to censor my more difficult thoughts: the unfair, the contradictory. It's hard. I don't want to offend or upset or worry my non-grieving friends, those who don't know what it's like to lose a parent. The feelings of bitterness, frustration, and anger that I struggled with for many months aren't easy for me to express, much less for other people to understand. So I've tried to spare people's sensibilities for the most part.
But right now, I feel like I want to try to talk about the one thing that breaks my heart the most.
It's weddings. Well, actually, it's the Father of the Bride. The toast, the first dance, the image of some proud, watery-eyed Dad leading his little girl down the aisle. It's not one of those, aw-nostalgic-sad moment. It's not just a "Oh, I would have loved if Dad could be there at my future wedding, just like this, but it's okay."
No. At every wedding I've been to since, it's a dagger to the heart. It is BRUTAL. I try to cover it up, try not to show how much I need to go weep uncontrollably in the corner of the room. I mean, it's supposed to be a happy day. But hearing a father speak about his daughter, his voice breaking with emotion--it destroys me. For a moment, I go back to the pain immediately following Dad's death. I'm listening to someone else's Dad talk about how much he loves his little girl, and my Dad's deaddeaddead all over again.
Keep a gentle smile. One or two tears are acceptable; it's supposed to be a moving moment. No bitter twist of the mouth, no ironic self-pitying smiles.
I hope that someday I can make it through an entire wedding reception without that burning, bitter feeling in the back of your throat when you desperately need to cry, aloud, right now. Your body aches to give physical evidence of your heart being ripped in two--but you can't. It's a damn wedding. It's the damn happiest day of my damn lucky friends' lives. And I genuinely do feel happy for them. But in the midst of all that good feeling, my grief swoops in, piercing me. Like a sudden gust of cold wind that only I can feel. The DJ is playing "Shout!" and everyone is dancing and I'm suddenly adrift in regrets and held-back tears and anger at my stupid Dad for dying and leaving us.
I know my feelings will change--it's still a recent loss. Maybe someday I will be able to feel almost entirely nothing but happiness at my friends' weddings. I'll watch my friend waltz around the dance floor with her dad, giggling at his missteps or his dorky moves, and I won't feel that ache in my gut. But for now, it hurts like hell.
It's not just that I know Dad will never be at my wedding. (if there is a wedding...) I have never been one of those girls to eagerly plan and anticipate the color of her bridesmaids dresses and flowers. I can't stand looking at wedding magazines. But I always looked forward to hearing what my Dad would say during his toast. I was counting on that definite message of approval, of love, to send me off into my future. I imagined that he would cry and I would feel so loved, so precious. Like at my sister's wedding. I couldn't wait for it to be my turn, for all my parents' love to be focused on just me, for one day at least.
I don't resent my sister for having Dad at her wedding, I rejoice with her. It was a special day. And I don't actually resent my friends whose Dads are alive. But I sometimes feel terribly, terribly robbed.
Robbed of those few precious words of love, given at the right moment.
I guess the worst of the pain is tied to the fact that I didn't get to say goodbye properly. By the time Dad (or we) knew that he was going to die, he was unconscious and unresponsive. There was no time for final words. I know Dad loved us all deeply. I know this.
But I find myself aching for a memory I don't have. Sometimes I used to think that it's the only one I would have needed: hearing a final confirmation of his love, in his words, before he died. Those words would have stayed with me forever. They would have been a balm on the gaping wound of my grief. They would have been my mantra during the rough days. Instead, I had to create my own mantra of self-affirmation. During the months immediately after Dad's death, I would occasionally have really terrible days at work. The people would be horrible, I'd be bored and depressed and lonely. So, over and over and over, I'd repeat in my head the words: You are beautiful, you are strong, you are competent and well-loved. I'm not sure I ever really convinced myself.
I don't resent my sister for having Dad at her wedding, I rejoice with her. It was a special day. And I don't actually resent my friends whose Dads are alive. But I sometimes feel terribly, terribly robbed.
Robbed of those few precious words of love, given at the right moment.
I guess the worst of the pain is tied to the fact that I didn't get to say goodbye properly. By the time Dad (or we) knew that he was going to die, he was unconscious and unresponsive. There was no time for final words. I know Dad loved us all deeply. I know this.
But I find myself aching for a memory I don't have. Sometimes I used to think that it's the only one I would have needed: hearing a final confirmation of his love, in his words, before he died. Those words would have stayed with me forever. They would have been a balm on the gaping wound of my grief. They would have been my mantra during the rough days. Instead, I had to create my own mantra of self-affirmation. During the months immediately after Dad's death, I would occasionally have really terrible days at work. The people would be horrible, I'd be bored and depressed and lonely. So, over and over and over, I'd repeat in my head the words: You are beautiful, you are strong, you are competent and well-loved. I'm not sure I ever really convinced myself.
But really it's not just Dad's absence from a potential future event that breaks my heart. It's not just the loss of those words. It's bearing witness to the love a father can have for his daughter. It reminds me that I'm halfway an adult-orphan. It reminds me how much I have lost. It reminds me of all of the unsaid words, all of the missed opportunities. It reminds me that I am still such a young girl, and I should not have lost my dad. I'm too young.
"During this time I wanted my mother to say to me that I had been the best daughter in the world. I did not want to want this, but I did, inexplicably, as if I had a great fever that could be cooled only by those words."
--Cheryl Strayed, Wild
