Dealing with Loss (and the Broken Heart and Fried Brain that Go with It)

My dad lost the battle with cancer and it was incredibly sad, unsettling and scary. It’s been almost two weeks and I have been at a loss for words to describe how I feel. I posted a quick announcement on Facebook the day it happened, mostly to let people know about the funeral but so many friends responded from all over the world, people who knew my dad as well as many who did not. I was totally overwhelmed by all the heartfelt and thoughtful notes. They meant a lot - thank you from the bottom of our broken hearts!

My dad had been unwell for a while and deteriorating rapidly, so his passing was not unexpected but it hit me very hard when it happened nonetheless. We all know we are going to go one day but it’s hypothetical until it actually happens. And when it does, the closest relatives are immediately thrown in organization mode – making funeral arrangements, notifying people, dealing with a myriad of things that have to be taken care of when someone dies. There is no time to think, no time to process. I see what is happening, my mind registers and I understand on some level but my brain refuses to process it. I go through the motions on autopilot, moving through a haze, hoping I would wake up and find that it has all been just a terrible nightmare and that everything is fine – my dad, my childhood hero, is young and healthy, strong and handsome, the way I remember him.

I try to hold on to the sweet childhood memories just a little bit longer but realize I am dreaming, with my eyes open. And there is a coffin in front of me holding a man, who is supposed to be my father but looks like a ghost of the man he used to be. I know my father is gone. Forever. I know I will never see him again and things will never be the same. The finality of it is like a slow bullet to the head, a huge lump in the throat, a hole in the heart. I know I will have to live with those things for the rest of my life because nothing can ever fix them. It’s all raw and it hurts but I have to learn to live with the pain somehow.

Time heals, they say. But that makes no sense to me. This pain seems different and here to stay - I can’t imagine it ever going away. I try to be strong for my mother, who is beside herself with grief, for my husband and kids but I am falling apart. I sense depression rearing its ugly head, trying to snake in. I shoo it away. I exercise and spend time in the sun trying to replenish the serotonin (happiness hormone) I so badly need right now.

I try to move on. Work is a good distraction, they say. Except, focusing seems impossible. And I keep forgetting things – not sure if it’s just temporary or I’m losing my mind. The loss and thinking about it seem to have consumed me, yet occasionally I am startled at the thought that my dad’s really gone and never coming back. 

There are too many bad memories of my dad’s illness and how desperate things got in the end. I don’t want to remember him like that. I am curating in my head the things I want to remember about him. I go through old pictures, just to prove to myself that the strong, handsome man was not an illusion. He existed and was at the center of my universe for a long time. I want to keep only the good memories, chisel off everything else and let it go.

Nothing makes us face our own mortality like the death of a loved one. So I contemplate it again and again. There is no good end – dying young and healthy or unexpectedly is no better than dying after a long illness. It’s heartbreaking no matter what. I wish I was more Zen about my dad’s passing – you know, be one of those people who honor their loved ones by celebrating their lives. There is a lot to celebrate about my dad’s life for sure: he was funny, curious, brave and adventurous; he traveled a lot, worked hard and had fun. But I am still angry about the way he died. Cancer is brutal. It sucked the life out of him and caused him so much of pain and suffering. I don’t understand why that had to happen and have a hard time moving past it to get to a point where I could celebrate his life. I hope I get there some day. But right now I am working through my anger and sadness. I am trying to figure out mourning and realize I suck at it. I find it frustrating to watch my mom going through her grief and I can tell she’s frustrated with me but everyone mourns differently and that’s OK.

Some people in Bulgaria wear black after they lose a family member. I never thought I would do that - it seemed old-fashioned, weird, and so not me because I love color. Well, I wear all black now and it feels strangely comforting and right because it matches my mood. It also lets people know I’ve lost someone who meant a lot to me. How long – I don’t know. Until the fog lifts and I feel lighter, I guess. Whenever that is…