Grief Grows Up

My father died 22 months ago and in that time, I have noticed that I am logging my grief much the same as new parents note how old their children are, using small developmental milestones.

I was not prepared for this birth. I was like one of those teenage girls one sees in the news who, at nine months along, claims to have no idea she is pregnant. Denial can be a wonderful form of escapism, until the truth comes forward to claim its rightful place. Giving birth to grief was the most painful experience of my life. Excruciating pain and raw emotion gripped my insides; contractions of my psyche that grew closer and closer together until the final push--the realization that this was real. My dad was never coming back. Then the screams, raw and loud and so foreign to my ears, even as I knew somehow that I was the source of these decibel-bursting sounds. 

As it reached two weeks old I was getting used to this new being in my life, but as my dad's birthday appeared before me, I began to experience post-griefshock syndrome, a sort of PTSD that occurs when a special date follows too closely to a birth. I took special care of my grief that day. I drew it close as if by holding it tightly I could will away the pain. I could not. My grief soon made room for post-partum depression. I knew it would. 

At seven months, Dadgrief had learned how to comfort itself, not with a thumb or a pacifier, but with food. As this was the age it could now feed itself, it did so with frightening frequency. This was so incredibly comforting. After every bite, the depression faded slightly as the food slid down. When the tears emerged anew, another bite would numb the feelings once more.

Twelve months came quickly and my grief learned to walk and run without help and how to greet other people. As these milestones were reached, I could more easily ask my grief to communicate with me. But all it could do was remind me of what was gone, what was missing, how this loss was a permanent fixture in my life, an unwanted chandelier illuminating nothing but pain.

At eighteen months, I gave birth again, this time to grief for my mother. The morning sickness was far worse this time, but the birth was less painful. All of the pain for this griefchild, it seemed, came before the birth as I cried heaving sobs that this grief was coming. My body was more prepared for the actual arrival of this being and though the screams may have been less intense, the raw emotion was in full control of my body. 

So now I have two beings to raise. Two distinct entities who will have to coexist in my house, in my body, and in my head. 

Momgrief will have to go through the same stages as Dadgrief but, when Momgrief is around three years old, they will be able to play together. They can run and jump and hide from me, but surely they will only play hide and seek, and I will have no alternative but to find them. They are, after all, beings that cannot exist on their own. 

At some point they will want the car keys and drive off, giving me time away from them. Eventually they will both get their own homes or apartments, returning only for birthdays and holidays. But because they are mine, born of love and nurtured by memories, they will remain mine until I die. These beings I have borne will not cease to exist until I do, because this love inside me will never die.