Navigating Grief: Lessons from Loss and Love

Wow….that was a doozy.

I’ve been very quiet on here because I lost myself for a little while. Back in November, I got a call from my mom: Dad’s cancer was back, and we were officially on the clock. In a blind panic, I was prepared to quit my job, leave everything behind, and be there with my family.

“Enjoy” what was undoubtedly a set of “lasts”: Thanksgiving, Christmas, dinners, conversations, and time.

Thankfully, work gave me the go-ahead, and my fiancé was on parental leave, so we loaded up the truck and left for California, being followed by a storm the whole way.

That big black cloud in my rearview mirror was more symbolic than I cared to comprehend at that time.

We spent a month in California; time I would have paid anything for, but luckily, didn’t have to.

There, my son rolled over for the first time, started cutting teeth, began eating solids, and hit so many milestones. Milestones, I selfishly would have rather we celebrated in my home without death and cancer washing those memories gray.

We loaded up on Christmas to head back to Colorado, and I cried like I haven’t cried before. I sobbed into my dad’s arms, knowing once I burst that bubble, once I left their home, the real world would descend and time would begin ticking again: mercilessly and uncaringly.

After our drive home, I returned to work, and so did my fiancé; we tried to find a rhythm. Less than a month later, Mom called again, “I think you need to come visit. Now.” I hopped on a plane with my baby and returned home for four days, and the illusion that my dad could somehow be ok, that he could beat inoperable, untreatable, unreactive pancreatic cancer, shattered.

I had a friend text me to ask how he was, and I told her that it seemed like he was already gone. He was tired. He was weak. He didn’t eat. His unending wit and dry sense of humor were masked by pain medication that just helped him get through the day.

Monday morning, I was returning to Colorado again, and I went to my dad’s bedroom to hug him goodbye. He sat up on the edge of his bed and talked to me for a while. He was lucid and content, and I promised I would come visit him again. Soon. He smiled, nodded, and said he would love that.

I didn’t know that would be the last time I saw or spoke to my dad.

I know that I am lucky. I know that not everyone gets a chance to say goodbye. I know so many people wish their last words had been a promise to see them again. But I wish I’d known. I wish I’d hugged him longer. I wish I’d told him I loved him just one more time. I wish I’d asked him more questions about his life. I wish I’d told him how much he meant to me. I wish I’d told him that my entire life was shaped around making him proud. But deep down, I know that he knew all of that.

I arrived back in Denver. My mom texted me that Dad had a health scare on the way back from a routine doctor’s appointment. She promised to keep me in the loop. He was at the hospital, but he was stable. By the time I was standing in the shower that night, she called to tell me he was gone.

The only thing I could muster was, “Oh.”

And then we cried. I didn’t even shut off the shower. I just stood in the shower with my phone to my ear, crying with my mom. She explained everything that happened that day and the horror of what she had been through, and we just cried. Over and over, we said that we were so thankful I got to see him that day.

What are the chances?

But I don’t think it was chance. I think that was Dad’s plan. He left life the way he left a party. Before the beer runs out and the social structure devolves, and you can’t walk out on your own.

He saw his window and he…just left.

Officially, it was sepsis that got him. A cold turned into something deeper that led to cardiac arrest, but you cannot convince me it was anything other than my dad cashing in every favor he had and leaving when he decided it was time.

To announce his death, I wrote:

“It is with immense sadness we share that my dad, Carl Rounds, passed away on January 27th. Mom, Greg, and I all agree that Dad left this world on exactly his terms, much as he did so many things in life.

There are not words for how much we will miss his gruff demeanor covering a secretly sweet and thoughtful heart. Or his ironic voicemails leaving his full name and number every time, exactly as the prompt requests. The way he never stopped learning and always had questions with an unquenchable thirst for knowledge. Dollar bills he slyly slipped into my hand during all-too-brief airport goodbyes. The way he never, ever was the first to end a hug. His incredibly consistent wardrobe juxtaposed against his vivid, flamboyant vocabulary. His hilarious catchphrases, or “Carlisms”, and unending witty remarks. He was the most intelligent, most humble, and deeply kind person I have ever known.”

I was shell-shocked. We knew this was coming. We had braced for impact, but the impact was a son of a bitch, nonetheless.

I tried to put my grieving on pause, to wait until his Celebration of Life a few weeks later, but that was a mistake. My pain came out in ways I’m not proud of.

My fuse was short.

I wasn’t a good friend.

I was barely a decent mom.

I was a terrible partner.

But that’s what happens when you aren’t just grieving your current loss, but you are trying to wrap your head around so many things.

My dad will never get to hear my son call him “Papa”.

He won’t walk me down the aisle at my wedding.

He won’t answer when I call for a trivial question about fixing something around the house.

He won’t leave me a voicemail when I miss his call.

He won’t ask me what I’ve been reading or what I think of a current topic in agriculture.

He won’t ever baffle me with his ability to speak such terribly accented Spanish.

He won’t be able to help me pick my next house.

He won’t hug me goodbye at the airport again.

He won’t be there for anything that is next.

But life goes on. Work expects you to grieve and move on. Friends get tired of the sadness. Acquaintences just think you are an asshole. And time truly waits for no one. Life just goes on.

I went to a pretty dark place. I had a bit of postpartum depression/anxiety, but this sent it over the edge. I could hardly enjoy time with my son. I was sick over and over and over again. Every cold turned into something worse, and the stress, anxiety, and depression spiraled and impacted my life in ways I couldn’t have foreseen.

But that’s a story for another day.

Four months after the fact, I’m here, crying my eyes out writing this, but knowing a lot of things worked out for the best, and maybe that was the magic to the emotional catalyst.

I still miss him, every fucking day. It doesn’t go away. It doesn’t get easier, but it’s a muscle that you keep working until you eventually have some control over it.

The weight isn’t lighter, you’re just a little stronger.