I’ve learned grief does not wear a watch. Sometimes this father wishes it would.
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Many times searching through the files of Flickr it’s really difficult to find an image to fit a piece of writing. One that embodies the piece but also gives the reader a glance into the soul of the article before they begin reading. This image search did not prove to be so difficult.
The image above was taken (or posted, rather) to Flickr on February 25th of last year. The significance of this date cannot be truly realized by a large population of parents. It was four days after the one-year anniversary of my daughter’s death.
I often feel like the created man in the image. He seems strained as if he’s forcing every ounce of energy in his mind, body, and soul into staying solid. He’s trying not to let time erode every fiber of his being. This sentiment resonates with me. I feel this way every morning when I wake up and every night before I got to bed. Or any moment throughout the day when I allow myself to slow down and stop what I’m doing. Every free moment of mental space becomes occupied by smiles and tubes simultaneously.
It’s why I generally stay busy doing forty things at once.
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The first eight months worth of memories of her are filled with smiles and giggles and the occasional drooling. The last 30 days? Mostly tubes and crying.
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My daughter became ill while I was deployed and it had been eight months since I’d last seen her—when she was seven weeks old. My physical connection with her was minimal, but thanks to the wonders of the internet, I watched her grow almost every day. The first eight months worth of memories of her are filled with smiles and giggles and the occasional drooling. The last 30 days? Mostly tubes and crying.
That last day? That was February 21st of 2014.
I’m a father of three children, but I can only hold two. And as I write this article I’m looking at my four-month-old son, he’s quite the blessing. Right now his arms are bent at the elbow and his hands are laying next to his ears (he’s got my ears—poor fella’). His chest is rising and falling ever so slightly. And his lips quiver every few moments, not because he’s cold, but because he’s cute (at least, that’s my theory).
It’s hard to stay solid all the time. Arguably it’s not good for you either. But as a man who has a family, it’s hard not to live in that mold. I want to break out and be limp for a change, but I can’t. I want to sit in the corner of the couch with a bucket of ice cream and binge on reruns of Cheers. But I can’t.
I can’t for several reasons.
- I don’t know how. I have tried this approach multiple times and within an hour I become disgusted with myself for moping around about something I can’t change. So I decide to get up and work on something I can. Often just leading to frustration because I am unable to learn the guitar solo from Hotel California in a matter of two hours.
- I feel as if I’m not being the rock solid husband for my wife. I’m supposed to be the one to comfort her and to hold her and to smile lovingly when I know she’s having a rough day.
- I am afraid that if I let myself crack, even a tiny bit, that I’ll place my career in jeopardy. The military has a tendency to not be so forgiving with mental matters (maybe that’s my perception and also an excuse—self-awareness doesn’t equate self-healing).
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Walking around with a shield and sword combatting grief has gotten me know where over the last two years. So often when I feel as if I’m putting on the armor and dawning the weapons, I just sit down and write for a few minutes. The Good Men Project has been an outlet for me in my healing process that I didn’t know was ever a possibility. I’m grateful for the message presented on these pages on a daily basis. I’m also grateful for those people who send messages on occasion to remind me there’s a process, not a magic wand.
I have to allow myself to grieve because someday my youngest son will ask about his sister, Layla, and I’ll have to explain why she isn’t with us anymore.
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Watching my seven-year-old son, who knew his sister, Layla, and watching my four-month-old, son, who didn’t; I’ve realized there are two sides to my life. There is before Layla, and there’s after Layla. I’m a different person on both sides, but what my focus has to be is to ensure I’m still a father and a constantly improving one. I have to allow myself to grieve because someday my youngest son will ask about his sister, Layla, and I’ll have to explain why she isn’t with us anymore. I’ll need to be able to share the good memories with him so he can smile when he looks at her pictures on our wall.
Parenthood is not a hobby, it’s not a game we play, and it’s also not a job. It’s a privilege. Being a father is something I feel lucky to have the opportunity to be every single day. I have to remind myself that while I miss my daughter every waking moment, and I dream about her on occasion, I need to feel lucky to have had her in my life. Her smile brightens my day when I stop and think about her. The way she impacted other people is something I will never forget.
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February is coming up, my pledge this year is to spend all 29 days of February thinking about her smile and her giggle and her pink bouncy seat we still have. To think about how much better she made me as a man, husband, and father.
If you’re grieving over the loss of a loved one, it’s always hard. There will be days in the beginning where you don’t want to get out of bed. But you have to. There will be days down the road where you think you’ve made it through the darkness and the next moment you find yourself locked in a bathroom stall with your face in your hands. The only advice I can give you is this: it will get better, but not if you don’t allow yourself to heal.
You can’t keep it bottled up inside forever. You can’t stop thinking about your loss, no matter how hard you try. In fact, the harder you try not to think about it, the more you do. The most beneficial lesson I’ve learned over these two years is that you have to embrace the nostalgia and tailor it to as many good memories as possible.
If you’ve experienced something similar and need someone to talk to, by all means, send me an email. You can find my email address on the “About” page for GMP.
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Photo credit: Flickr/martin