Endurance Riding

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*Originally written on January 31, 2021, but not published until January 7, 2024.

I remember learning about the stages of grief in some high school or college psychology class. But as I learn about them now, in the depths of my own grief, I realize they don’t come packaged up neatly. You don’t feel one emotion, move through it, and move on. You sometimes skip some of the emotions altogether, get stuck in one, or continue to revisit one over and over and over again. And sometimes, you feel more than one emotion at once.

The night my father died, I suddenly felt much like I had two years ago, right after we lost everything in the Camp Fire. Like I had suddenly gained membership to some sort of club I never wanted to belong. Only this pain was deeper somehow and I doubted if I’d recover from the devastation at all.

It was a Tuesday, two days before his death, that I realized my dad was dying. I mean, I hadn’t been naïve to the possibility and had prepared my brother that Dad dying was a definite outcome, but it wasn’t until my visit with him on Tuesday that I realized he was really dying — as in, his death is coming — and it’s coming soon.

I sat at his bedside during the ICU medical rounds that morning, listening to report. The lab values that were given and his high ventilator settings told me he wasn’t going to recover — especially since he’d been intubated for more than a week now. But the staff was still hopeful, talking of a possible tracheostomy and a feeding tube as if that was something that was feasible, although I knew better — my dad never wanted to live that way.

When I spoke with the oncology team later in the day, I told them to be real with me. As a former ICU nurse, I knew what was happening – I knew he had had an adverse reaction to the drugs he was given as part of the clinical trial, and he wasn’t recovering from the subsequent damage. And a trach and a feeding tube weren’t going to cure him of the cancer he was so desperately trying to beat – it would only postpone the inevitable.

In the days immediately following my dad’s death, there were tears — lots of them. There was sobbing which shook my entire body and worried my three-year-old, who sweetly asked, on the way to his Papa’s viewing, if we could bring Papa home so mommy would stop crying. Then I arrived home, and safe in my own bed, the tears stopped for awhile — at least the intense, sobbing tears which threaten to engulf me. I could have a conversation about my dad as nonchalantly as if I was talking about the weather. I even found myself laughing at some of the memories of my dad. But then the dreams started — the ones I’d find myself in after having trouble falling asleep.

As I write this, my three year old has approached me and without me saying a word, he asks, “Does Mama miss Papa?” My eyes fill with tears and he says, “Will Papa wake up soon?” When I say, “Unfortunately, no, Papa isn’t going to wake up,” he says, “I sorry, Mama. Me miss Papa too.” The tears flow down my cheeks as I tell him he doesn’t have to be sorry, but that I miss Papa too and he says, “Don’t cry, Mama. Don’t cry.”

Humans tend to avoid pain at all cost. So many people have said so many beautiful things to me since my dad’s passing… things I have often said to friends experiencing the pain of grief. “He is no longer in pain.” “You were so lucky to have such a wonderful dad for the time you did. Not every daughter has been blessed with a father as great as yours.” “Cherish the good memories – those will get you through.” “He will always be with you.” “We may not understand it now, but everything happens for a reason.” “He is in a better place.”

I have said these things to myself — especially when I have felt I may be overcome with sadness. I have swallowed that lump in my throat — the one that creeps up and stings and burns — and have carried on with a brave face and dry eyes.

This morning, in the early dawn hours, I dreamt my dad had written me a letter from his hospital bed. I woke up remembering parts of the letter. “I am fighting hard and I refuse to give up. I am fighting hard for you, for I don’t want you to be without a father. And I am fighting hard for me. I have more life to live – and I love living life. I can’t wait to meet my fourth grandchild. I want to retire and travel more. I want to take Jakob and Declan on more trips – and this time, with you and Asher. Let’s do a safari in Kenya and I will show you where I was born. I want to see Jakob graduate college and Declan graduate high school. We can throw big parties with lots of food and dancing and shots of tequila.”

And then I awoke. And I didn’t feel like crying. I felt nothing at all, actually, as if I was numb. And that was a good feeling — because it meant I had control. Control over my thoughts, control over my emotions, control to keep doing what it was I had planned to do today — wake up, make a cup of tea, have breakfast with Asher, feed the horses, and teach my nursing class later this afternoon.  Humans don’t want to feel pain, we also want to have control.

But what if I just surrendered to the pain? What if I just allowed myself to fall into a slump on the floor and cry those gut-wrenching cries? What if I allowed myself to feel the kind of pain which hurts so much you think you might never recover? What if I let myself scream in anger at the top of my lungs until my face felt hot? What if I didn’t believe all those beautiful things and instead believed how incredibly awful it was that I lost my dad? What if I thought, I am 38. I am too young to lose a parent. My dad was 65, he was too young to die. He had so much life to live. And yes, I may be lucky to have had so much time with my dad, but what if it wasn’t enough time?

Not every daughter is blessed with an amazing dad, but why should that fact lessen my pain? There were times in my life when, caught in the middle of a nasty divorce, I lost time with my dad. There was the time my mother wouldn’t let my brother and me travel to London with him – she had her reasons and I’m sure, at the time, she thought she was doing what was best – but the last time I was in London with my dad visiting family I was a toddler, thus too young to remember the trip. There were times we lived 3,000 miles apart because my mom was on one side of the country and my dad the other. And as a teenager and young adult, there were times I blindly didn’t speak to my dad — because I was siding with what I thought was the right side, or simply because I was in the throws of growing up, I was hormonal and defiant and angry, and I thought I knew better than my parents.

So, what if I decided to mourn all that? The loss of time, the loss of my dad and the man he was and the woman he taught me to be. The memories we made, which I will never experience again in the flesh. The future I thought I had with him, and the future I thought he had with my children. What if I just gave in to all the pain? Would I move through the grief faster?

I have watched my children as they grow — when they feel an emotion, they express it, immediately. And it doesn’t look pretty. It is unorganized and loud and messy and obnoxious. We call it temper tantrums and blame it on the inability to control their feelings. And it’s our job, as mature adults, to teach them to control themselves. But what if we embraced the temper tantrums? What if we let them feel those feels? And then, when they were done, we just moved on with our day. Why are we always trying to control everything? Why are we always trying to hide our emotions? Why do we tell our sons not to cry and our daughters to be strong? Isn’t all this just a part of being human? If we have the ability to cry, why don’t we?   

My dad passed away on January 7, 2021 at 11:15 pm. I listened to his heartbeat until it stopped and I will never be the same.  

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