The Grief Diet: On the loss of my father

. . . there are no more pictures.

It seemed as though the dark storm clouds were finally being carried away by the wind. They no longer were hovering over me. The sun had come out again. I thought to myself, it has been 8 months and maybe this is the moment where I can be part of the human race. This week, I could cry without wailing. It didn’t take as much effort to laugh or smile. Along with storm clouds, my guilt over things I wish I had done or said seemed to have moved on.

I should have known, like many times before, grief would strike again. What brought it on?  Today I received a photo album from Crazy Aunt. It was a tribute album to my dad, beautifully crafted and capturing his true essence as a man and a father. I studied each picture. I have seen them a million times over the years, but now they have a different meaning.

Each picture used to be my dad, who was alive. Now they are pictures of my dad, who is dead.

I then turned to the end of the album which contains pictures of family members at the funeral, copies of the eulogies, and the funeral service program. It hit me, once again: he is no longer here.

Now I cannot bring myself to smile. The crying will turn to weeping. The storms clouds are taking their form, once again over my head. The sun has deceived me.

In the book A Grief Observed, C.S. Lewis, once again, articulates every gut wrenching feeling I experienced in a matter of minutes:

Tonight all the hells of young grief have opened again; the mad words, the bitter resentment, the fluttering in the stomach, the nightmare unreality, the wallowed-in tears. For in grief nothing “stays put.” One keeps on emerging from a phase, but it always recurs. Round and round. Everything repeats. Am I going in circles, or dare I hope I am on a spiral?

But if a spiral, am I going up or down it?

How often-will it be for always?-how often will the vast emptiness astonish me like a complete novelty and make me say, “I never realized my loss till this moment?” The same leg is cut off time after time. The first plunge of the knife into the flesh is felt again and again.

Tonight I feel it all over again.

I wasn’t sure if I really wanted to go to a grief support group. My first hesitation was, “I am a therapist, I know what to do.” Sounds silly now that I think about it, but at the time any excuse would do. I also am rather quiet at first and the thought of meeting a bunch of new people made my stomach tangle in knots. I was concerned that these strangers would think I was crazy. Especially if I spoke about my Grief Diet. What would they think if I talked about not being able to eat at times, having persistent insomnia, feeling so angry and alone, losing my keys, being a fugue state most of the day, questioning whether I belong to the human race? Would they understand what it feels like to have regrets and guilt over what I wish I would have done or said differently? What if I talked about not being sure who I was or struggling with “am I depressed or is it grief”? What would they think then? Finally, what if I spoke about wanting to have contact with my dad. Or at least a dream.

So the first night I met these strangers in my grief group, I had to hold back the tears. I wanted to run as fast as I could out of the first meeting. I knew it was going to be hard. Each week I would have to talk about the enormous hole that has been left in my heart. I would be reminded of the day my father died, my childhood, the hurtful things people have said since he has died, the other recent losses in my life, and I really didn’t know if I could do it. After the second night, I couldn’t hold back the tears. I didn’t want to run, walk maybe but not run. After a few weeks each of the people in my group were no longer strangers. They were fellow mourners and I realized I wasn’t alone. Each time I shared things that should have had me committed, instead I would receive compassionate glances as well as several nodding of their heads. They knew exactly what I was experiencing. They too have been on the Grief Diet.

My fellow mourners have lost their mothers, fathers, a brother, a sister, and a daughter. I came to know each of them and their loved ones who have passed. I met a woman who was raised by her father. Our stories are so similar that it is not coincidence that we were placed in the same group.

As our group comes to a close next week, I am so grateful that I did not give into my rationalizations. The process has not be a piece a cake. Many a Tuesday night I left sobbing. One night I had my first and only panic attack on the side of a road. But through our discussions, poetry writing exercise, and bringing in pictures of our loved ones, I have seen some glimmer of light in the midst of all of this pain. Being with these people each week gives me hope.

So I dedicate my post tonight to my Grief Group. If you are reading, words cannot express the gratitude I feel towards each of you. I don’t feel so alone. Thanks for listening and understanding. Thanks for allowing me to share my dad with you and for each of you to trust me with the memories of your loved ones. My burden is not so heavy anymore.

My Thanksgiving was in two rooms.

"Kitchen Art II" by Gail Basner

The Kitchen:
I spent much of Thanksgiving here. It was full of light from the sun. The shades were open, welcoming anyone who might want to stop by. It wasn’t just the light that made the kitchen this happy place. It was the aroma of fresh herbs. The deep orange of the pumpkin pie and dough rising on the counter. My mother-in-law’s hands were busy at work. We cut potatoes and mixed the stuffing. From the kitchen, I could hear my daughters’ gargling little giggles; my father-in-law engaging them in the Macy’s Day parade, saying, “Here comes the pirates,” relieved when someone would actually sit and watch it with him; and the sounds of the door opening and shutting as my poor husband made numerous trips to the store. There were living people in this room and windows to the outside world.

"Master Bedroom" by Andrew Wyeth

The Bedroom:
At times, I went to my bedroom. A room where there was silence and darkness with the curtains drawn. No distractions. There is no welcome mat in front of my bedroom door. It is a place of rest, not work. It is not a room of the living but that of the dead. During the Thanksgiving bustle, I often found myself drawn here to cry. It was the first Thanksgiving I would not hear his voice or talk to him. In the quiet of the bedroom, I hoped I could hear him. We could talk about Thanksgivings past and memories of Wah-Lee’s Chinese restaurant in Yreka where we ate one year because of our inadequacies in the kitchen.

In my grief, I’m trying to find the balance between these two rooms. One that includes the living, the present, others, food, life, laughing, parades. And one that includes quiet and solitude and the past and tears and the dead. To stay in the kitchen too long is to deny my grief and thus my memories, and to stay in the bedroom too long is to deny my life.

How is that balance possible? Can I ever merge these two rooms? Can I bring tears for my father into the kitchen? Can I bring my giggling daughters into my place of grief? Or should the wall between these two spaces remain?

They wheeled him out on a gurney. His eyes taped shut and his skin so pale. He looked dead. My mom and I gasped at the sight of him. He was being moved from surgery to ICU. He was battling lung cancer. Standing at 6 foot 3 and only weighing 145 pounds, he was too frail to undergo chemotherapy. His doctor told us that he had a 50/50 chance of surviving.

This was 1993. He told me on our way home from the hospital that the first few days in ICU, he wanted to give up. He used the words “pull the plug.” He fought with his pain remembering me and my mom. He said that he wanted to be around to see me with a career, walk me down the aisle, and become a grandfather. I was relieved that he was going to keep fighting. I needed him.

His battle didn’t end once he was out of ICU. The last five years his health had declined. His lung cancer never returned, but he now battled emphysema, congenital heart failure, and osteoporosis. He was put on oxygen and became more and more limited with what he could do. I hated seeing him struggle to breathe.

So less than a year before his passing, I flew out to see him. I had something important to say. I told him how thankful I was for him fighting all of this time. But, I also told him that if he needed to go, I would be ok. I promised. I committed to taking care of my mother and be a good mother to his granddaughters. With a coffee cup in his hand, he looked up at me with his eyes swelled with tears. He said, “Kim, you have no idea how much it means to me to hear you say that.” He also told me he didn’t have much time left. His body was weary. He was weary.

I am so glad I could give him that gift. Although, now there are times I wish I could go back in time and take it back. But, I know it is what I needed to do. I only hope I can keep my promise.

Thanksgiving and Christmas bring so many memories of me and my dad spending time together. Therefore, I’m seriously dreading the upcoming holidays. So I made a list of completely sane and rational ways for me to avoid the pain.

1. Celebrate Hanukkah instead.
2. Spend Thanks giving and Christmas with complete strangers.
3. Hibernate with the bears.
4. Change my calendar to May.
5. Go live with a Jehovah Witness family (I heard they don’t celebrate holidays).
6. I wonder if there is room for me on the International Space Station?
7. Drug induced coma.
8. Okay how about a lot of wine and ambien? Wait, I heard absinthe is legal in the U.S. now.
9. I think there are some tribal Amazonians who need a psychotherapist like me.
10. Denial.

Seriously, now, any tips for surviving the next few weeks?

I have no more tears to shed, no more burdens to put on the shoulders of others, and no more time wasted with “woe is me.”

I am exhausted from talking about the same old feelings over and over again. I feel selfish, needy, and often like I am an albatross to those who come in contact with me. I am sick of my grief.

I want to remember every moment of my dad. I don’t want to remember him at all.

I sometimes fantasize that I am someone else with no recollection of him. Maybe if I rely on defense mechanisms such as denial and suppression then my pain will ease.

Maybe I can restructure my own reality like pretending this was all a dream or–better yet–pretending he didn’t exist. I could take the pictures off the wall, quit writing this blog, cease going to my grief group, and when I receive letters regarding his death being not so natural, I could forward them to the real Kimberly.

A wise friend told me to deny the pain is to deny the love. Right now, I feel like I want to do both. I only have my memories and those are too painful. The reality is he is NOT here. He seems to be nowhere. I am tired of my heart aching. I do not think I have it in me to keep grieving.

So I prefer not to.

Here are some songs that have been on regular rotation on my ipod the last few months. For different reasons - some of them obvious and some not - these songs have brought me comfort. What songs have eased your grief?

"Ukulele Room" by Wayne Jiang (2004)

• “Landslide”
  by Fleetwood Mac
• “Father & Daughter”
  by Paul Simon
• “Built for Glory”
  by Lost Dogs
• “When the Roll is Called Up Yonder”
  sung by Kelly Joe Phelps
• “Yesterday”
  sung by Eva Cassidy
• “Don’t Cry a Tear”
  by Lyle Lovett
• “Most of the Time”
  by Bob Dylan
• “Somewhere over the Rainbow”
  sung by Israel Kamakawiwo’ole

My dad was somewhat mysterious. Even after living with him for 17 years, I could never guess what he was thinking or feeling. He wasn’t very demonstrative of his feelings. I think I saw him cry twice and get really angry once. He had a striking smile but rarely could I get him to laugh. However, I did see him belly laugh a few times while watching Beavis and Butthead.

Rather than wearing his feelings on his sleeve, he tucked them underneath layers and layers of clothing. I rarely received hugs growing up. When he did hug me it was done in a robotic manner.  He also wasn’t good at telling me he loved me. Again, I was left to guess. Does he love me? Does he approve of me? Is he sad that I am leaving home and going off to college?

After I went off to college, I observed friends with their parents and wondered, “why doesn’t my dad hug me or tell me he loves me?” I often thought that there was something wrong with me.

I confided in Crazy Aunt (more on her later), explaining to her how I felt angry at my dad for not doing what so many other parents do. She said something to me that forever changed my perspective on my dad’s inability to communicate his feelings.

She told me, “Kim, next time you are with your dad, I want you to watch how he looks at you.”

We were at a restaurant having breakfast with some of my parents’ friends. I was engaged in a heated political conversation with one of them. I was very passionate about my opinion and made it known to his friends (and probably the entire restaurant!) I thought for sure he was going to be embarrassed by my stubborn behavior. I glanced over at him to see if he was hiding under the table, but he was sitting tall with a huge grin on his face. I saw The Look. He loved me. He may not have been touchy feely, but he displayed his love in so many other ways. It just took me a while to figure it out.

It wasn’t because he didn’t want to hug me or tell me he loved me, but he didn’t know how. The last five years of his life he began to learn. He started hugging me at every visit. Every time we would hang up after a long or even brief phone conversation, he told me he loved me. About five days before he died, we had our last conversation. His last words were “I love you” and mine were “I love you too.”

Around the same time every night, my heart would begin to skip beats. It would pound so hard that I could feel it in my ears. It went on like this for days. I will admit that once or twice I secretly wished my heart would just stop. I didn’t believe I had it in me to keep living with the pain.

I decided to have the doctor check out my heart. I told him of the recent death of my father. We discussed my weight loss – “the grief diet,” you know. At the end of the visit, my doctor said, “Your heart is fine, but I know it hurts.”

A grief counselor told me soon after my father’s death that I would need to drink a lot of water because of dehydration. She told me my heart would ache. I thought she was speaking metaphorically.

The one thing no one told me is that my brain would ache too. Yes, my brain. Headaches, poor concentration, losing stuff, visual disturbances, eye twitches. Oh, and my chest would hurt. I will feel this sudden urge to cry and holding it all in makes my throat and chest burn.

Finally, my muscles had their two cents. Twitching, aching, knots on my shoulders.

And let’s not forget the hair that has been falling out.

And insomnia.

I write this late on the eve of my first day at a new job. It’s the first job I’ve started without an encouraging phone call from my dad. I feel that loss in my body. And I’m reminded why I called this blog “The Grief Diet.” It’s been my diet the last few months and has helped me lose weight. I don’t recommend it. Try Weight Watchers instead.

Most days, I have a balanced diet. My life is more than my grief. But tonight, I’m afraid, I’m binging on grief and remembering that pain is as physical as it is emotional.