The first anniversary of my dad’s death is approaching, and grief hit me like a punch in the stomach a few days ago.  I knew these few weeks would be tough, as I remembered in vivid detail the events of a year ago leading up to his death.  I’ve avoided writing in my journal for days at a time because I didn’t want to see what I’d written last year.  I was in a terrible mood for a few days and didn’t realize why at first.

There hasn’t been a single day in the past year when I haven’t thought of my dad.  There are photos of him in my office and throughout my house.  Sometimes the memories bring tears, often they bring smiles, and occasionally, they bring both at the same time.  But this recent grief was different.  It was like a dark cloud, a heavy weight — not just sad memories, but something more palpable.  My whole body felt depressed.

That darkness has passed for now.  I got through it by reaching out to friends, and by giving into it.  I acknowledged it for what it was and let myself wallow in it.  I cried, I ate junk food, I tried to be easy on myself, I watched mindless TV.  I think the only way to deal with big, difficult emotions is to dive right into them, swim around for a little while, and then distract myself with something else so I don’t drown.

I appreciate the handful of friends who made an effort to be there for me a year ago, even in small ways, and I’ve tried to forgive the ones who never bothered to call or send a card.  I’ve been that person before, not understanding how hard it is and not knowing what to say.

There really isn’t much anyone could say to help me through the grief.  I don’t want to hear that he’s in a better place.  The fact that he lived a relatively long life and that his death was not entirely unexpected doesn’t make the loss hurt less.  Beginning when I was a teenager, there were a number of times that I sincerely thought my dad was going to die, and he didn’t.  Those near misses didn’t prepare me for the real thing.  I hate that he never got to meet his grandson.  I don’t want to hear that he’s watching over us.  I don’t believe it’s true, but even if it were, that would be no substitute for witnessing the joy on my dad’s face as he holds my baby.  We’ll never have that experience.  Sometimes I’d rather people say nothing at all than utter cliches that do nothing but demonstrate that they really do not get it.  But it’s nice to know that people care, and just showing up or making a call goes a long way.

Grief has its benefits, believe it or not.  It has solidified my memories of my dad, and allowed me to minimize the bad parts and emphasize the good parts.  It’s helped me to realize just how loved I was.  It’s made me think differently about my relationship with my son and the memories I’m giving him.  It’s made me more empathetic, more open to others, and more authentic.  It’s focused my attention on the important things, the big picture, the full arc of life.

I’m planning to practice some extra self-care over the next couple of weeks.  I’m not exactly sure what that will entail, but it will probably include avoiding Facebook and my journal so I don’t have to see day by day reminders of the most difficult time of my life.  It may or may not include writing.  One thing’s for sure: it will probably include a fair amount of ice cream.  My dad loved ice cream, so that seems like a fitting way to honor his memory and indulge in some emotional eating at the same time.  I’ll have an extra ice cream sandwich for you, Dad. And friends, if I don’t seem like myself, know that this is hard — a year’s time hasn’t made it any easier — but I will be okay.