It’s been five years since dad passed away.
If I’ve learned anything in the last several months, it’s that the grieving process is unpredictable.
The first year was painful, years 2-4 were a little more bearable, and now year 5 is fucking painful again.
I’ve tried to channel into my daily life what I think I’ve learned from his passing—that life is short, that we shouldn’t treat our well-being like a pawn to sacrifice for superficial things, that work can mean something without being everything, that we shouldn’t sweat life’s woes too much because most of them won’t matter in the grand scheme, that we shouldn’t put too much stock into anyone’s opinions, that we should be quick to forgive, that we should extend our love unconditionally, that we should strive to discover and be ourselves while we can.
Over the years, I did find myself—at least more of me.
I did prioritize my well-being—at least more often.
And wherever possible, with the aid of a little bit more self-awareness, I fully immersed myself in the act of embracing and nourishing connections with the people I love.
All this work helped coax small sparks of light from an otherwise unconscionable and dark event.
Another thing that nothing really could’ve prepared me for is the contrasting reality superimposed onto this fruitful one I just described. This reality is filled with unresolved confusion and unsolicited moments of intense sadness.
When I went to go see Top Gun Maverick in theaters in June, I cried for the first 10 minutes because I couldn’t stop thinking why isn’t dad here to see this? He’d love it.
A month before that, I was about 30 seconds into the song Waimanalo Blues by Country Comfort on my drive home before a tsunami of tears started to fill my eyes. There were no thoughts this time—just a sudden feeling of his absence followed by a tidal wave of sadness and powerlessness.
A month before that, I was in awe of the scenery as I walked along a beach in Mexico. If anyone in the world deserved to enjoy this moment, I thought, it’s him. But…he can’t. Again—sad, powerless, and irreconcilably confused.
I don’t think I will ever understand why fate was stacked against a man who deserved so much more.
I also don’t think my disdain for the piece of reality that is his absence will fully go away.
A hospice nurse once told me that our memories of loved ones that leave this world are like glass on a beach—at first sharp but, over time, smoothened out such that we can eventually hold them and appreciate their beauty without being cut by them.
Maybe she’s right—maybe the glass just isn’t soft enough yet. But then again I’m also strangely terrified of what it would mean for the glass to be soft.
To deeply love anyone in this world is to make your heart vulnerable to great pain. That’s the contract—at least it feels like it.
I do sometimes wonder: I felt less pain, would it mean I loved him less? A bit of a sadistic thought, I know.
Maybe I’ve positioned myself into the perfect Chinese finger trap, where I’m destined to be stuck so long as I try to learn and grow as much as I can on the one end while preserving my love for him—whatever that means—on the other end.
Whatever the case, whatever way I find to coexist better with these feelings is, all I things I now understand deeply is that pain is part of the price of love.
And despite my susceptibility to a whirlwind on any given day that I’ve become better acquainted with, I still believe in my heart that it’s worth it.
