It’s now 84 days since my dad died. It’s been strange stuck halfway across the planet, unable to grieve with my family.
I learned that when someone you love loses someone they love you cannot be in touch too much. It’s now 84 days since my dad died. It’s been strange stuck halfway across the planet, unable to grieve with my family, and I still partly believe when I finally get home he’ll be there somehow, that his spirit will linger, that I’ll see his dent on his pillow, that I’ll bury my face in his wardrobe and find the essence of him there, like one more hug.
I have friends who were in touch every single day, often several times, for that first week. I know it was uncomfortable for them; I know they were tiptoeing and fretful; they said “I don’t want to bother you” often. As if they could. I was overwhelmed with gratitude, cocooned by their kindness. Perhaps people fear they don’t know the “right” words, but there are no particularly wrong ones, except maybe “get over it”. You cannot fix things, so there’s only listening to be done, and turning up.