Losing a Parent: What No One Tells You About Grief

The other day I found a planner from early January 2023. It was so full of ambition and ideas: another senior model program, publishing and marketing my Mindful Photography Challenge book, relaunching my Youtube channel, expanding my garden, building a coaching business, creating an online photography class.

Everything Changed

All of that ended when a meteor crashed into the middle of my confidently ambitious life. In short order, my dad broke his back, got sepsis, and his absentmindedness began to look a lot more like dementia. Suddenly life revolved around hospitals, doctor’s appointments, rehab, medical decisions, selling family land to pay for his care, managing his death, and then settling his estate – all on top of complicated family dynamics and the heavy grief of losing a parent.

It was completely disorienting, especially since it happened so quickly and unexpectedly. And yes I know lots of people who have lost parents and loved ones, but none of that seems to have much bearing when you are the one going through it. The rest of the world feels like it is behind a foggy shower door, you can kind of see everyone out there but you can’t really make out the details or understand what they are saying. And none of it seems like it matters anyway.

What Actually Helped

There were a few things that actually helped me get through this.

The first was remembering Anne Lamott’s words. Many years ago I saw her speak in Maryland with a dear friend. Someone asked her what she did when life was difficult, and she said, “Left foot, right foot, breathe. On repeat.”

So that’s what I did. I did the next thing. I took a breath. And then I did it again. For years.

And the second, perhaps more important thing was, whenever anything gave me even a moment of reprieve, or made me feel lighter, or a little bit happy, I moved toward it. Pottery was one of those things. I had signed up for classes before my father got sick, and because I had prepaid for 2 months, I kept going even though a part of me felt I should quit to focus on my dad.

But I noticed something. When I had my hands on clay, spinning around on the wheel, I was completely absorbed. It was all brand new, I couldn’t multitask. I couldn’t worry or feel anxious at the same time I was trying to center uncooperative clay. Pottery required all of my attention. And being able to set down my preoccupation about illness, death, and responsibility, even for just a few hours, felt like one of those healing potions in video games that restores enough health points for you to keep going. So I made time for pottery and kept showing up, even when it felt a little selfish to do so.

I personally did not find connection to be the great answer people often say it is. People want to fix things, give advice, or offer hallmark card thoughts about losing a parent. And most people don’t really want to hear grief on repeat, because grief is not quick. It’s long and repetitive and maybe somewhat boring from the outside, even when it is consuming the person living through it.

I eventually reached out to my former therapist, and that was the third helpful thing. I already trusted her, and the therapeutic space felt safe enough that I could just be myself. I didn’t have to worry about being “too much” or “too sad” or how ugly I looked when I cried. I could just release some of the grief and anger and pain inside of me, and feel held and contained by her compassion.

Although, I suppose my therapist was actually a kind of connection. Maybe the important thing is that the connection is with someone you can just be yourself with, without having to hold back your grief to make it easier for them. Someone who can stay grounded and loving in the face of your emotions.

Does Grief Get Lighter?

It’s been two and a half years, and I still miss my dad. Sometimes intensely. The grief hasn’t disappeared. But it no longer fills every available space like it once did.

While I was in my dark place, I had a mental image of it as a cave. I thought I would eventually crawl back out, more or less where I had entered it, pick up my old plans, and continue on my way. But it turns out I wasn’t in a cave, I was in a tunnel. And I’ve come out at a vastly different place.

I look at my old list of plans and ideas, and very little of it resonates with me. I will probably always be like Walt Whitman’s spider, throwing out filaments into the world and hoping some of them connect. Like this blog post. I still want to write. I still want to share things. I still want to make things and put them where other people might find them and enjoy them. But I have zero desire to monetize all of the things I once thought were so interesting and valuable.

I just want to create my art someplace. I’d love a little one level ranch with a separate cottage out back for my creative endeavors, one that could double as a small shop for a quarterly open house. I’d love a garden where I’m not waging war with deer. And I want friends and family nearby. That’s about it, honestly. And I have most of this right now to some extent — I have a place to create, I can sell what I make, I have a garden even if there’s an occasional skirmish with the deer. I have people I love around me.

So I don’t know exactly what the next couple of years hold, but I do know my addiction to planners has ended. I want to be more free form, more open to what comes, while circling around creativity, friendship, and family. Maybe there are things percolating that I can’t see yet. But I’m okay with not knowing. For now I want to enjoy what’s already here.