Think about how you’ve helped other people with their grief.” “But when you feel the pain, remember that it comes from a place of having loved and been loved deeply.” Then, almost as an afterthought, he added, “Beyond that-you’re the therapist. “I can’t make this less painful for you,” he said one night when I started crying over the idea-still so theoretical to me-of his death. We stood there, the two of us, hugging and crying as people passing by tried not to stare, because we both knew that this was the beginning of my father’s goodbye.īut of all the ways my father tried to prepare me for his loss, what has stayed with me most was when he talked about what he learned from grieving his own parents’ deaths: that grief was unavoidable, and that I would grieve this loss forever. I want to make sure you know.” It was the first time we’d had a conversation like that, and the subtext was clear: I’m going to die sooner rather than later. “So,” my father said outside the gym, “I want to make sure that I’ve told you how proud of you I am. A few years earlier, he had taken me aside after one of my son’s basketball games and said that he’d just been to a friend’s funeral, told the friend’s adult daughter how proud her father had been of her, and was heartbroken when she said her father had never said that to her. He said many comforting things in recent months-how I’ll carry him inside me, how my memories of him will live forever, how he believes in my resilience. His greatest act of emotional generosity, though, was talking me through my grief. He cared deeply about others when we returned to my mom’s house after his burial, we were greeted by a gigantic box of paper towels on her doorstep, ordered by my father the day before he died so that she wouldn’t have to worry about going out during the pandemic. Mostly, though, he was known for his emotional generosity. He had a dry sense of humor, a hearty laugh, boundless compassion, an uncanny ability to fix anything around the house, and a deep knowledge of the world (he was my Siri before there was a Siri). My dad was a phenomenal father, grandfather, husband, and loyal friend to many. In the months before my father died, I asked him a version of that question: How will I live without you? If this sounds strange-asking a person you love to give you tips on how to grieve his death-let me offer some context. The question is, how do we live with loss? You can’t get through life without experiencing loss. As a therapist, I’m no stranger to grief, and I’ve written about its varied manifestations in this column many times.Įven so, I wanted to write about the grief I’m now experiencing personally, because I know this is something that affects everyone. This week, I decided to submit my own “Dear Therapist” letter following my father’s death.
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I was at his bedside when he took his last breath.Īnd yet, nothing prepared me for this loss. We had the conversations we wanted to have, and the day he died, I was there to kiss his cheeks and massage his forehead, to hold his hand and say goodbye. We didn’t know whether it would be weeks or months, but we expected his death, and had prepared for it in the time leading up to it. After years of invasive procedures and frequent hospitalizations, he decided to go into home hospice to live out the rest of his life surrounded by family.
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He was 85 years old and in great pain from complications due to congestive heart failure. I know that everyone is going through loss during the coronavirus pandemic, but in the midst of all this, my beloved father died two weeks ago, and I’m reeling.
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