Grief Comes in Waves

Grief is not something I am familiar with. It has been some time since I lost a family member. My dad passed away the day I started writing this post. Naturally, I cried when I heard that my dad had passed away. Then I seemed okay, but I wasn’t. I knew I wasn’t. My dad will be greatly missed! He was a treasure to be sure. 

That day and since, the grief came over me in waves. One minute I’m “fine”, then I have water running down my face or I’m sobbing uncontrollably. By “fine” I mean the Italian Job definition – “freaked out, insecure, neurotic and emotional”. That’s not usually like me. Although my girls and grandkids have brought out more emotions in me. 

The grief waves are not all the same. Some waves are BIG and wash right over my head. Like being totally swamped and gasping for air. This was the initial reaction when I heard the news that my dad had passed. Even though it was expected, it hit me quite hard. Some waves are smaller and seem break at my knees. I had one like this in the middle of the night when I realized I’m now the oldest man in my family. Sometimes, I’m sitting quietly, minding my own business, and a tear slides down my cheek and lands on my shirt.

I’m going to add details of some of the waves as they wash over me.

• Another time, someone gives me their condolences and my heart stops and my throat closes. 
• Singing an old hymn in church and picturing dad singing in the choir in Cooksville. 
• Watching a movie where a key character gives a memorial to his dad who had recently passed away.
• The hymn at church this morning. I don’t plan to stop going. 
• Watching a Hallmark movie of all things. 
• More to come…

I did some reading online and here are some of the interesting things I discovered. 

“Grief is like the ocean; it comes on waves ebbing and flowing. Sometimes the water is calm, and sometimes it is overwhelming. All we can do is learn to swim.” Vicki Harrison

“As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything… and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.”

From the LOSS foundation (https://thelossfoundation.org/grief-comes-in-waves/).

As for grief, you’ll find it comes in waves. When the ship is first wrecked, you’re drowning, with wreckage all around you. Everything floating around you reminds you of the beauty and the magnificence of the ship that was, and is no more. And all you can do is float. You find some piece of the wreckage and you hang on for a while. Maybe it’s some physical thing. Maybe it’s a happy memory or a photograph. Maybe it’s a person who is also floating. For a while, all you can do is float. Stay alive.

In the beginning, the waves are 100 feet tall and crash over you without mercy. They come 10 seconds apart and don’t even give you time to catch your breath. All you can do is hang on and float. After a while, maybe weeks, maybe months, you’ll find the waves are still 100 feet tall, but they come further apart. When they come, they still crash all over you and wipe you out. But in between, you can breathe, you can function. You never know what’s going to trigger the grief. It might be a song, a picture, a street intersection, the smell of a cup of coffee. It can be just about anything…and the wave comes crashing. But in between waves, there is life.

Somewhere down the line, and it’s different for everybody, you find that the waves are only 80 feet tall. Or 50 feet tall. And while they still come, they come further apart. You can see them coming. An anniversary, a birthday, or Christmas, or landing at O’Hare. You can see it coming, for the most part, and prepare yourself. And when it washes over you, you know that somehow you will, again, come out the other side. Soaking wet, sputtering, still hanging on to some tiny piece of the wreckage, but you’ll come out.

Take it from an old guy. The waves never stop coming, and somehow you don’t really want them to. But you learn that you’ll survive them. And other waves will come. And you’ll survive them too. If you’re lucky, you’ll have lots of scars from lots of loves. And lots of shipwrecks. Unknown

And so, I will press on. Taking comfort in my dad’s life being well lived and the hope that I may one day see him again in heaven.