The Grief Diet: On the loss of my father

I look at pictures and the memories bring him back to life.

My daughters tell me that they can do anything when they grow up.

I hear stories about him from his friends and family.

I am around his beloved greyhounds.

My husband and I listen to his favorite jazz album.

I can now feel close to my mother.

I hear from my friends the difference he made in their lives.

I dig my heels in and won’t budge.

The paranormal continues to fascinate me.

He visits me in my dreams and fixes what is broken.

I am hiking in the mountains and sense he is with me.

I think about my career.

I am patient rather than short tempered.

I choose to think before speaking.

I don’t give up.

I have an open mind.

I keep living because of what he made possible.

I hear his voice inside my head.

I look in the mirror.

It was standing room only in the mortuary, a small converted Victorian house that smelled of hymnals. I had not anticipated such a large gathering at my father’s funeral. I was delightfully mistaken. Dad was a quiet man and he rarely enjoyed large social circles, but in the last few years he had discovered a group of people who shared a similar passion. These friends belonged to the Greyhound Pets of America. He was the vice president of the local chapter and spent much of his time rescuing and fostering these neglected and abused animals. They would arrive at his house beaten, emaciated, and fearful of human contact. My dad in his gentle nature would nurture them back to safety and health.

They say that dogs look like their owners, and if you’ve seen my father you’d see an uncanny resemblance: long legs, skinny, awkward. The day of his funeral his friends wore their greyhound shirts, hats, and pins. It is exactly what he would have wanted.

It wasn’t just the company that would have made him happy, but the service as well. His favorite songs (“It is Well with My Soul” and “Softly and Tenderly”) and the sermon were moving, and the eulogies that were read described the very essence of my dad. I could barely breathe and had to ask my husband to read my eulogy for me. I looked around and saw so many people laughing at the stories that were shared in eulogies and impromptu speeches by his friends. But I wondered, if the purpose of this funeral is to celebrate my father’s life, why can I only think about his death and how lost I felt without him?

There were a few times before, during, and after the service that I almost fainted. I was sleep deprived, dehydrated, emaciated, and hadn’t eaten in days. To avoid a fainting spell, I would lean up against a wall needing but fearful of human contact. How would my body, so abused and neglected by my grief, survive this day or any other day that would follow?

My father had rescued me before—from family turmoil in my youth, from financial problems, from emotional struggles—but I needed him one more time. Like his dogs, I wanted to be taken into his home and rescued from this strange and painful world I now inhabited.