Grief & Meaning in Sobriety
My dad passed away recently: now the dust has settled, I set some time aside to write about it - for clarity, closure, authentic expression, vulnerability. Maybe a hope for connection with whoever reads this.
Truthfully, I don't have a clear insight one way or the other. What I do know is that grief isn't a straight line. It's murky, unpredictable, and a bit of a head fuck.
The Fall:
He passed very suddenly. He had a fall, suffered a brain injury, and a month later, he died in hospital. At the time, more than anything, I felt angry. Despondent. To the point of total apathy. Like I'd been preparing for this moment most of my adult life. It felt inevitable.
His partner swore that he wasn't drunk when it happened, it was the first thing she said to me when I arrived at the hospital. But really, I think we all knew, my brothers, my sisters, and me - we all knew.
One of my earliest and most vivid memories of Dad - is being in the front seat of his Ford Fiesta and watching in awe as he rapped along word perfect, to ‘White Lines (Don’t Do It)’ by Grandmaster Flash & Melle Mel.
At the time I had no idea what any of the lyrics meant, all in knew, in that moment, was that my Dad was the coolest person on the planet. This was true for a long time. Growing up, no one had a more fun relationship with their dad than me.
He showed me karate in the garden, we made nunchucks, he took me shooting in the woods, on occasion, he’d wrap elastic bands around his face just for a laugh, that was a particular favourite of mine. He offered me a cigarette when I was fourteen because he knew I smoked, let me drink Bacardi Breezers on New Year's Eve (it didn’t end well).
When we were told that he wouldn’t be recovering, I went to say my final goodbyes. Even though he couldn’t really hear me. I told him I was sorry this happened. I promised to remember the best parts of him, not the parts that were missing or broken. I thanked him for all the ways he showed up for me. I thanked him for doing his best -in the only ways he knew.
Wales:
I think back to my Nana's house in Wales, the rooms we used to play in, her doll's house, the dinner table where we'd eat French Fancies and chocolate gateaux, the grandfather clock she called Godfrey, the stuffed rabbit called 'Boppety Bungee', the piano I used to sit at.
When Nana went into a home, me, my brother, sister, and Dad went to sort her things out, knowing it would be the final visit.
The other night in bed, I thought about that house, if there'd be anyone living in it. What they'd be doing. I thought about everything left behind, whether it be a memory, or boxes of objects to be sifted through, kept, or given away.
The Pen:
When my uncle Pete was ill, towards the end. When he was still at home, still mobile. We'd help him with hospital appointments. On his birthday, he asked me if he could borrow a pen to make a list - people to thank for his gifts and cards. The gifts were mostly socks and Lynx gift boxes. So many Lynx gift boxes. I don't have words for how tragic and empty it all seemed.
He made his list anyway, thanked everyone. "Don't worry," he told me, "I'll give it back. I always remember when someone lends me a pen."
After he passed that New Years Eve, we eventually cleared out his house. In that empty back office upstairs, on the desk, was the pen.
Just that pen.
It felt like a moment out of time. I stood with it for a while, wondering what it all meant - if it could mean anything other than the abject meaninglessness of it all.
Of course there's a more palatable way to frame this: Pete was thoughtful, sensitive, considerate man right up to the bitter end. Of course he was all those things. It's easy to celebrate them because they're true. To me, all that pen reminds me of, is how immaterial and insignificant we all are.
And then an immense pressure takes hold of me. This crushing need to do something 'worthwhile' - to make changes, get my shit together, be more productive, not squander my time on this planet.
To be remembered for something.
The Truth:
When I'm not present, when I'm unhappy or discontented, it's usually because I'm chasing something I can't quite grasp or avoiding something I can't escape. Maybe the possibility I might die alone, never reach my full potential, and eventually be forgotten by everyone.
David Sedaris said something like:
There's probably a reason people don't focus on the absolute meaninglessness of it all - it's fucking depressing. But I think there's a difference between dwelling on something, avoiding it completely, and holding it with both hands and staring straight into it.
It's an uncomfortable truth, and it feels like shit to sit with, but this is grief, my response to watching people die and leave this life.
Getting Through:
Now that I'm sober, there's no place to go but through. I don't have that thing anymore that numbed all of this. I only have my connection to it. I can sit with these possibilities, with every uncertainty, without needing to judge or analyse, change or fix.
When it all gets too much, I try to get out of my head, go for a walk, go to a meeting, talk to a friend, connect with something bigger than me. Or sometimes I just stay indoors all day. I stop trying so hard. Stop planning so far ahead. Is it really that important anyway? We're all going to die.
As Hunter S Thompson once said:
Here's to those we miss x
