Oh, The Places We've Been

A year in, here's what I've learned about grief.

It was exactly a year ago that I held Dad’s hand as he took his last breaths. A year that has simultaneously felt like a minute and a lifetime. In some ways I’ve blinked and reached this ‘milestone’, yet I’ve crawled through what at times felt like cement to get here.

On the day Dad passed, I spent the morning in hospital. Dad’s final weeks had taken everything I had to give, and I’d fainted and smacked my head on the hospital bed in his room. Luckily he was oblivious to the entire ordeal, in the haze of what was to be his final day on Earth. At the hospital a doctor glued my head back together, a perfect Harry Potter battle scar a lifelong reminder of the toll of care.

That night I got the family around. Dad was sleeping but complaining about it by breathing loudly – the ‘death rattle’ warning that the end was near. I’m certain he could hear us around the dinner table and was desperate to join us one last time. Shortly after I wrote…

After dinner I go in to see him and can see his breath changing, like a tide slowly washing out. I take his hand in my hand, my other hand on his chest. He takes four big breaths, moving his head over his shoulder like he’s doing freestyle between the world he’s in and the one he’s heading to. Then he takes two smaller breaths and, with a quiet exhale, he is gone.

I’ve spent the past year doing the ‘doing’ of death, the overwhelming amount of admin and work that comes with packing up a life and settling affairs. So while the true emotional healing is probably ahead of me, the one year mark feels like the right time to reflect on what I’ve learned along the way.

Scar tissue

Without oversimplifying the experience (and at risk of giving you a completely underwhelming analogy) grief is very akin to scar tissue. Just like my head, the emotional scar is still very much there. I can feel it and see it and of course, there are no guarantees it won’t get ripped open. But I have healed tremendously over the last 365 days, in the way that only the human body - and heart - can. We are way more resilient than we give ourselves credit for.

This too shall pause

I’ll catch myself laughing or momentarily distracted from my grief. These distracted periods of time have started to slowly stretch out - the pause some space where ‘normal’ seems to live. In the past 3 months I’ve been to the East Coast, Vanuatu and New Zealand, and my grief came with me every time. But, there are more moments where I’m OK than moments where I’m not.

A crappy but heartwarming club

I’ve connected with so many people who have lost someone they love, and even if we have nothing else in common, there’s an instant connection. It’s a quiet respect, one that says ‘I know how you feel’. While it doesn’t fill the giant Dad-shaped hole, there’s definitely comfort in knowing I’m not alone in my grief.

A heavy stone

I heard someone say that grief is like a heavy stone in your pocket. The stone never gets lighter, but you get stronger and better at carrying it around. I think that’s what has happened to me this year. It’s less raw, less visceral. A little deeper under the surface of my skin. In some moments it’s none of those things and it’s right there, just waiting for someone or something to press the grief button. Maybe it’ll be like that forever, but it does feel like those moments are getting fewer and further between.

Little things, big things

I’ve girded my loins for each emotional milestone the ‘year of firsts’ has delivered, but those haven’t been the moments that floored me. It’s the song in the supermarket, the order at the restaurant, the deep exhale after a long day when I’d love nothing more than to pick up the phone. It’s a million little things that are actually big things, like his laugh, his hugs and the way he’d always hold my hand. I’d give anything for one more hand-hold.

I don’t sweat the small stuff (as much)

After going through the worst thing, small grievances have become mere nuisances I can navigate that ruffle my feathers much less than they once did. I also have far less tolerance for BS. I’ve never had a high threshold for drama but now it’s pretty much zero. I can hold space for legitimate worries, but if you come at me with something petty I just don’t have the bandwidth.

You’re in as much control of your grief as you are of an election

You can vote, but your candidate may not win on any given day. There is no point me hoping for ‘good days’ on the days I need to be switched on or perform or parent or be social, the grief does what the grief wants. My job is to allow, accept and hold space for it. While some days are harder than others (and from what I hear always will be) I’m riding the waves and have stopped hoping for a more linear experience.

I guess what I’ve learned this year is that grief isn’t neat, it’s messy. Just a few days ago I was in New Zealand doing the closing keynote for a conference, and towards the end of my talks I always share a little of mine and Dad’s story. He’s there on my slides and in the room, and I get to share him with hundreds, sometimes thousands, of people at once. At these moments my grief nestles perfectly amidst my purpose and doesn’t trip me up. And yet this morning, I held his ashes on my lap as I drank my morning coffee with tears streaming down my cheeks. Who knows what tomorrow will bring. Grief is running the show - I’m just along for the ride.

Dad, I’ll watch the sun go down tonight and I’ll remember. Not just the end, but the beginning and everything in between. Your unwavering support, your dedication to making the world a better place and most importantly, your undying love for me. I was so, so lucky to be loved by you.

I carry you with me every day and will do always. And oh, the places we’ll go.

Casey x

P.S: I hope if you’re in grief there’s something in here that warms the cold spots up a little. If not, there’s a beautiful TED talk by Nora McInerny called We don’t “move on” from grief, we move forward with it. It’s a beautiful look at the realities of living with the scar tissue of losing someone you love, as well as the discomfort of grief and how we can do a better job of talking about it. I’ve left it below for you, if it’s of interest.