#ambiguousloss

I knew you’d force me too

It was always in the back of my mind, actually

A truth I’d push away for the temporary comfort of illusion

An illusion I had to subscribe to for my safety

And now that the time is here

And you are no longer allowed to into my hemisphere

I can not say that I am surprised

And yet I’m still mourning

The hope,

The ghost

of who I always prayed you will be

So many thoughts.

Today I wondered if I should reach out to you.

I quickly realized that would be a mistake.

It’s something I very much should not do.

And yet, I still wonder

Because although I’ve learned to fill the gaps

With the Holy Spirit, joy of life, this and that

I still miss you

And the echoes of your silence still remain in my heart.

No longer a visceral scream

But a silent whisper

Calling me forward

Beckoning me

In a dangerously sweet voice

To just reach out

But instead, this time, I will reach

My name is Anastasia, and I am a 22 year old from the northeastern US. During all the chaos of the beginning of the pandemic, my dad was diagnosed with early onset dementia. It was devastating. As time went on after his 2020 diagnosis, it became increasingly more apparent that I would pretty much be responsible for his care (with the help of my loving mom). The diagnosis came right around the time that I graduated high school. By the end of that summer after graduation, I had withdrawn from my dream college. I was grateful to be trusted with the responsibility of being my father's caregiver, but the weight of such was sometimes absolutely crushing. That weight became more obvious as the disease progressed. After about four years, my dad passed away from the disease in July of 2024.

Despite a popular piece of advice for caregivers being to journal experiences and emotions, I found it very hard to do so. It felt like with every journal entry I made, I was staring the reality of the bleak situation in its face. It would leave me feeling scared and depressed. So I stopped journaling, and found other, more helpful coping mechanisms. Some were healthier than others. While I didn't feel comfortable journaling, I still felt really guilty for not doing so, because I knew I would inevitably forget so much. As my dad entered the end stages of the disease, I couldn't perform any of my coping mechanisms as I became paralyzed with physical and mental exhaustion.

All this being said, I am now about five months out from my dad's passing, and I am feeling the genuine need to write. To document what I can remember from the complete whirlwind that was the past four years. I don't think I will write these entries in chronological order. I will probably just write as things come back to me, and maybe organize them at a later time. This is my attempt to help myself grieve, and maybe connect with a few people who had similar experiences. I will share stories, as well as books, music, and pictures from the last four years.

Do you remember the day we met? You were a bank of grey clouds, rolling forward, swallowing everything in your path. I was running home, running from you, and I felt the pressure of you at my back. You pushed against me, so hard that all of me broke into a million tiny jagged pieces. Your clouds swirled and danced around the pieces of me, caught the biggest one, and embedded me into the center. You wrapped me up in a rainbow and I held it to my eyes until I cried myself to sleep and woke up lost inside your clouds, far away from where I was Before. I tried to find my way back, but you just stood there, swirling around me, and there was no way out. I think you knew I needed you.

Do you remember April? You were a hurricane, wild and frantic and so heavy. We were at a long marble table speckled with birthday balloons and a flock of people coming and going around our thick blanket of black clouds. I smiled and you screamed, I laughed and your raging wind stung my eyes and made me cry. It was too bright, you cried, too bright against our stormy backdrop and you said if I took you home, we could turn the lights off and if I lied on my side you’d tuck me into the sheets, you’d fold yourself over me and keep me safe and we could dream of Before for as long as we wanted. That day still sits on the crown of my head, and I don’t know if I’ll ever forgive you for it.

Do you remember July? You were a roaring wave, sometimes mighty and terrified and you’d push me down into wet gravely sand, but you always let me go and pulled me back up. Sometimes you broke before you hit the shore and you’d gently lap at my feet. We were free falling, free from the pressure of time and we ran down an endless path, invincible to the mysteries it held, just you and me in a watercolor sunset and we’d run for miles until we were lost in the jungle. We met a princess with golden locks and she drove us home with the top down and the wind in our hair and she came inside with us and danced with us in the kitchen. I asked her if she was afraid of you and she wrapped us both in a quilt and gave us a kiss on the forehead and one of her t-shirts before she flew away. I took you to the beach and I tossed you into the ocean and you drifted away with the other waves like you’d been there the whole time. We strolled through drifting storms and collected brightly colored drinks and someone painted me black and gold and green and we paraded through the streets wearing nothing but paint and confidence. You ask me if I'll plant you back there, amongst the other waves, and I tell you, yes, one day; just hold on a little longer.

Do you remember August? You were a dark storm, pouring rain with loud claps of thunder. It was hot and bright and we were on a boat and the music was pulling everyone in but you. I sat in the sun under your cloud, begging you to stop bleeding all over everything. Finally, I made you a bandage out of tequila and lime juice and I breathed you out in a sigh of relief, and for the first time in the After, I was light enough to dance on my bare feet. You brewed in the corner watching me, until the boat rocked you to sleep. The day ended, I gathered your sleeping form in my sunburnt arms and we walked under a velvety black summer sky. There was a joke made at my expense and I pretended to be insulted but I couldn’t help the laugh that escaped me, an arm went over my shoulder into a sweet hug, a playful touch on my abdomen and you swelled with contentment. You remind me of that day often. “Will I ever sleep like that again?” you ask me. I tell you I hope so.

Do you remember October? You were a steady downpour, fast, fat droplets, but we found a magic crystal, rosy pink with flecks of silver, and it smelled like sage and cardamom and when I held it, the rain would roll like velvet down my skin. You begged me for a cold cheap beer to drown you in but instead I strapped you to my wrist and I pulled you into my bubble on roller skates clutching my magic crystal so I wouldn't fall. I fell anyway, and I heard you laugh, a real laugh. I felt you let me go for the first time and you danced around me. You collected that day like a trophy.

Do you know where we are now? You're a grey whisp of a cloud, a glittering fog overhead. We're in a big bright bubble. The light doesn't hurt you anymore.

You have an opinion on everything. I can’t pick out a pair of socks without you telling me what you think. You seep into my joy and my fear. Roads that were once downhill slopes climb up steeply, where they were once empty and free of obstacles you've pushed large rotting trees into the path. But out of the rot, you still bloom flowers for me. You push the branches aside and you swim right under me. Your current formed and shaped me into a sturdy mountain.

You marvel at every detail. I appreciate your wonder. You study every bead of rain, every streak of light in the sky, every shape the moon makes. Because of you, the grass sings to me. The wind tells me its secrets. Sometimes I wonder if you came from heaven.

If, like me, you are prone to a little reflection during this particularly sparse bit of the calendar, when Christmas has ended and nothing else has begun – the armpit of the year, as I recently heard it described – then 2020 really begs the question: where the fuck do I begin?

It’s tempting to try and frame this raging dumpster fire of a year in a way that pulls out the positives; but I know of too many people with too much heartache to condescend in that way. Take what you can, only if you can, and put the rest on the bonfire. Instead, I’ve been circling back to something I learned about earlier this year, whilst listening to a Brené Brown podcast on one of my daily marches around the reservoir with Órla lashed to me. It’s the idea of “ambiguous loss”.