"Grief happens in so many ways."
And through it all, the spirit of that person or thing is quietly whispering “grow”.
Hello, dear readers! It’s my honor to share with you a guest post from Amanda Aaron about her relationship with her father and, once he died, her relationship with grief. This is a poignant glimpse into the complexities of feelings, thoughts, and memories surrounding the death of a loved one around the holidays. Since this time of year often activates tender feelings and remembrances of those we’ve lost who can no longer sit at the dining table while we feast and celebrate, I wanted to respect that you may be grieving instead of feeling the typical mirth of this time of year—or maybe you are experiencing both grief and joy, which is also real and true and honest.
As always, I know you will be generous in what you share in the comments. Please follow and subscribe to Amanda’s Substack if you’d like to read more about her journey: Amanda Aaron 🇨🇦
In December, 2023 I called my dad twice in one week to check in on him and make sure he wasn’t too lonely at home without my mom. One Facetime call with my dad around supper time on Friday, December 15th included my son Forryst and me chatting about Christmas and gifts and our holiday plans. It was dark outside, and Dad was still driving. He was a truck driver his whole life.
Dad had the phone in his lap, so we saw the shadow of the big steering wheel and the underside of his chin. God, even two years later, that call is imprinted on my mind. I can hear my dad’s voice and see his face. My son loved Facetime calls with Grandpa.
That was the last time we talked to him.
On Tuesday, December 19th, I was out for a walk with my son and husband. I was not working that day, as I had taken a few weeks off for Christmas. My phone was on silent, as it usually is, and for some reason I took my phone out of my pocket, maybe to look at the time, and I noticed my mom was calling me.
I remember the exact spot on the sidewalk where I was standing when I answered the phone. My steps slowed. My mom was noncommittal in her speech. She said Dad “kinda” had a heart attack and he’s “kinda” alive. She described the situation—that he felt extreme heartburn and called my mom to have her bring him some antacids. He had laid down on the couch in the kitchen at his work. When she arrived at his work to find him, she smelled urine right away and knew that he had had a heart attack, so she asked a young man in the trucking office call 9-1-1. Likely my dad was dead for an hour before the paramedics resuscitated him. That’s a long time for the brain to go without oxygen.
Something in that phone call felt final to me, and I started writing my memories:
I remember the bed Dad built when I was three; and the Barbie house and the bunk beds and the toy box and the bunny pen and the tree house from an old box spring. I remember the trip in the truck and the driving part of family road trips. I remember he came to my high school graduation, and he cried when I moved out to Vancouver.
On the phone today with my dad’s sister, she said she always saw her brother as selfless - always out working so my sister and I could do all our extracurricular fun.
Childhood was tough for me. I remember missing Dad for years and somehow it turned into anger.
The “not knowing” is the worst. I grieved my dad last night. Jonathan [my husband] reminded me of the lessons that are in front of me now.
I’m learning to hold space for other people’s emotions, but I still struggle to sit and hold space for people when their emotion doesn’t match my own.
I feel weepy at times and numb at other times. I looked through photos and Forryst has had some great moments with his Grandpa. And I let go of my anger towards my dad in my teens, so I honestly have no regrets and hold no grudges. It’s really quite a peaceful place to be.
Jonathan asked me to buy groceries on my planned solo day, then asked me to be home soon after. It was such a nightmare of people at the store. I really could have used a quiet moment to cry and write. I was weepy the day before. The overwhelm of shopping and groceries and so many people only piled on top of my weepiness.
I’m still looking for that moment alone.
Many people asked if I would go home to visit my dad in the hospital, though he was unresponsive for a long time. To me, he was already gone.
I remember Forryst had picked out a little wooden spoon for Grandpa to stir his coffee with. We had wrapped it and mailed it for Grandpa to open on Christmas. My mom was undecided of what to do. Should she open the present? When he finally passed away, she ended up returning the Christmas present she bought for my dad. It was some tool, I think, maybe a saw or a drill.
When the doctors finally had a chance to review the brain scans with my mom, they said the whole scan was black. My dad’s brain was so swollen, they did not think that he would ever wake up. And if he did, he likely would be nothing but a vegetable.
Mom waited until Sunday morning, December 31, 2024, to pull the plug. My dad passed away early in the morning on January 1, 2024.
My mom held the funeral on January 15th. A cold snap in the Edmonton area brought temperatures down to -40 degrees Celsius at night. Many flights were cancelled. Thankfully I got there without a problem, but I flew home alone. It was the first time my son and husband were alone together, without me, overnight.
I wrote about my dad’s funeral—our father/daughter relationship and the honest struggle, heartache, and the hard work it was to connect with him honestly and openly. I was touched by so many people who came up to me afterwards. Many told me how wonderful it was to learn more about a person after their passing. I had no idea people typically only share the niceties of a person at funerals, but I got down and ugly into the struggle—and, of course, also shared the rainbow after the storm.
Like all new year greetings, I anticipated hearing “how were your holidays” and “happy new year” wishes. I gave it my best effort to avoid the banality of small talk and avoided going back to the office until March. I was also doing some deep soul searching. Now that my dad was dead, there was this persona of myself I could let go of, this mask I could take off.
My mom said she felt anger that my dad did not see that his life was worth living. She felt angry that their forty-two years of marriage and her reaffirming him of his value was not enough. She said she was jealous that all he does now is sing praises [in heaven]. She said she’s in denial.
We talked about grief not being our identity, and she said Shelby [my sister] reminded her that she doesn’t have to hash out the details of exactly what happened each time.
Jonathan says he envisions my dad sitting on a broken, sit-down lawnmower, holding a MacDonald’s coffee and chatting with old people while whispering to the blades of grass: “Grow”.
Grief happens in so many ways.
We grieve past identities of ourselves. We grieve when people pass away, whether we know them or not. We grieve when animals die. We grieve when groves of trees are cut down. When we make decisions in life, we grieve the life we won’t have, or the babies we won’t have. We grieve the loss of the sun in the fall. And through it all, the spirit of that person or thing is quietly whispering “grow”.
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Thanks for sharing my story, Jeannie 🥰
Thank you for sharing your grief. When our parents move on to the next life it can and does feel empty. Thank you again for sharing.