about my grief

Full disclosure, this story is not a “story”. This story is a look back at my journey through the death of my daughter Katie, and the aftermath.

As with most of my stories, this one began its life as a thought seed germinating in my brain for weeks. Like most of my musings, this one bloomed in little bits and pieces and fits and starts until, at some point, I decide that it is not going to leave me alone until I get it out of my brain and down on paper (or on this screen in front of me).

What else this story is not, is a thesis on the grief process or any such academic calisthenics into the elements of grief. I am not qualified, trained, or in any way, capable of attempting any kind of advice on grief. That topic has been thoroughly written about by professionals well and properly.

What I am is a person, a father, who has, and is living my life with the loss of a child. That’s all. I am just like thousands of other people who have to live on after a child’s death.

I have learned a few things that came as a surprise and are helpful to me. All I want is to say these things out loud (so to speak). I offer them to you for your review and consideration.

On the day Katie died, I was at work in Akron, Ohio, and Katie was at work in Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.

When my secretary told me that I had a call, I thought she said it was from one of the police departments that I was working with. In reality, it was from Katie’s employer, whose company name was similar to a police department, so I sent it to voice mail because I was busy. (That decision haunts me).

Minutes after I played the message from her employer, saying that she had been transported to a hospital and it did not look good, I was in the car headed to Philly. I had not gotten to the highway when I reached the ER doctor who told me she was dead.

First mistake. I continued driving, alone, to Philadelphia. I was in shock. I was also in “cop mode,” which is probably how I did not crash the car. 

I stayed in “cop mode” for the next week in Philadelphia, partly because Katie’s mother and brother also arrived there and I felt like I had to keep myself together for them. Partly because I needed to “work the situation”, her apartment, her dog, her car, her job, and her friends. But the truth is that I also stayed in “cop mode” because it was a safe place for me to operate emotionally. 

I treated this week from hell like a military mission. This did not go over well with her mother (my ex) or my son. I had no other skill set from which to operate. If I was going to get through this, it was going to be from a position of “mission-critical operation” mode.

The details of that week are not relevant to this story except that having spent five or seven days (I can’t tell you exactly how many days) in mission-critical mode all day every day, made it easy for me to remain in mission mode after I got back to Ohio. 

I was so shut down that week in Philly that I would not answer my cell phone. I was getting many calls from friends and family as the news spread. I refused to answer any of them, sending all of them to voice mail. 

Alone, in my hotel room, I would play the voicemails and then text the caller. I knew that if I spoke to anyone that was not there with me, I would crumble. This decision did not go over at all well with my callers, and by the third day, some of them were threatening to load up and drive to Philly. I was able (thru texting) to stave off that event, but none of them were happy with me.

Shutting all of them out was my second mistake. I knew that if I had to talk about this outside of my immediate three-foot circle I would break.

The residual effect of the decision, to treat this like a mission, was that I could not, dare not, turn mission mode off, even weeks later. Total honesty here, now, years later, I can say that maintaining mission mode was not only emotionally safer but also easier on me. I knew how it worked. I knew what to expect. I knew that while in mission mode, I could maintain some semblance of order in the chaos that was what was left of my life.

In my mind, I constructed a “crime scene” mentally. I even envisioned bright yellow “POLICE LINE DO NOT CROSS” tape around every aspect of her death.

As long as I stayed outside of the mental crime scene tape of emotions, I could function. 

Another aspect of my “mission mode” was that life was just easier with all of this cordoned off than dealing with any emotional pain. I could function reasonably well as long as I did not cross the line.

I guess I unconsciously decided that I could live like that indefinitely and carry on, day to day, as long as I stayed on the safe side of the tape. Third mistake!

Two events caused me to recognize that there were significant cracks in my defenses. 

The first was that I got into a car accident. It was not my fault, but avoidable under any normal circumstance. To this day, I feel bad for the other driver. Neither car was badly damaged and no one was injured but looking back on it now, I should have been able to easily avoid the other driver’s mistake.

The second event was the one that broke me. A little back story is needed here to explain. 

Katie and I both loved music and music was a large part of our shared experience. It was not a conscious thought, but I did turn off all music after her death.

It was two or three weeks after I got back from Philly, and I had to go grocery shopping. 

Walking around the store loading my cart, I started losing it. Not all at once thankfully, but with each aisle, I was coming apart. So much so that by the time I got to the cereal aisle I knew that if I didn’t immediately exit this pain factory I was a goner. 

Sitting in my car in the parking lot, sobbing, I replayed the grocery disaster. Understand that I walked away from my grocery cart and left, I was that close to emotional calamity.

It took me several minutes of mental replay to realize that what got me wasn’t the Philadelphia cream cheese. What got me was the “music”. The damn grocery store was playing music. No, it wasn’t one of my Katie songs. I can’t tell you what was playing, but three aisles into my shopping, my emotional fuze was lit and I barely got out before disaster struck.

All right then, no more music for me. Fourth mistake.

Rather than address what was now obvious even to me, that I was breaking, I just widened the mental “police line do not cross” tape to include music. I did this for several years.

Not only did I expand the emotional danger zone, but I also taped off particular dates, events, occasions, holidays, people, and anything really, that could trigger grief. Fifth mistake. 

I was prepared to operate like this for the rest of my life. Sure, I knew that there would be the odd occasion where I would need some emergency emotional mental police line tape, but I was willing to live with that because I reasoned that this was just how I was going to deal with her death. 

This operational plan, even with its high price of isolation was the way of things for me for a long time, until one day not long ago. 

I saw a piece of art. A sculpture of a human form, made of iron rods, doubled over from the weight of rocks. The entirety of the inside of this form was filled with rocks. The piece is called  “the weight of grief” by Celeste Roberge.  

What spoke to me about this sculpture was that all of the rocks were neatly contained within the human form. All were arranged in an orderly fashion filling in the inside of the human. The weight of the rocks was what was causing the person to be bent over. It was as if the artist somehow knew me

The second event that caused me to rethink my cordon tape plan was  something I saw in a movie.

Person number one has just lost their daughter. Person number two, also the parent of a dead child from years earlier, explained that there is a choice. 

You can stuff grief down and never let it out to breathe. Maybe you are strong enough to do this forever. But the price you pay for this is not ever allowing yourself to think of or fondly remember your child, or to hear their voice or see their face in your mind.

The speaker went on to say that if you let the grief out, let it live and breathe, after a time, it becomes bearable. Then, your mind can allow you to remember her with joy.

These two things, the sculpture and this conversation, resonated with me.

Permitting grief to live and breathe and splash all over me is not easy. But now grief does not completely emotionally wreck me very often. 

I can proudly say that I can now listen to some music. Not everything, but some music. Also, I have recently enjoyed more than one conversation about a Katie memory with other people. Enjoyed the conversation, not just acting like I was all right. (and not by text either)

I am NOT offering any of this as advice, or a “how-to” plan. I repeat I am not a grief expert. I am only a father who has outlived his child. A father who has decided that permitting grief to affect me, and deal with it, is far better than forever locking away the memory of my Katie.

I have no idea how this will develop in my future. For now, I feel like I have honestly begun the process of dealing with my new reality without Katie, and in a healthier way than before.

Who knows, there might even be a grocery store trip in my future and if I emotionally survive it I am gonna blast Bob Marley’s music all the way home!

Lastly, I saw or read somewhere an answer to the question, “What do you think Hell is like?”

The answer was, reliving your worst day over for eternity. That’s what I was doing by not dealing with grief. Each time I crossed over the “tape” was like that day from hell, emotionally. Every time.

I would not wish that on anyone. 

I hope something in this post finds its way to you if you need it. I hope it helps you. I really do.

Bob Marley, “Three Little Birds” forever.