Grief with a capital ‘G’, Abandonment with a capital ‘A’ and Love with a capital ‘L’

Last week my Father died, quickly, shockingly and painlessly. And because I love him, this is the ending I would have chosen for him, free from suffering. But not right now, I wasn’t ready to say goodbye, I still need his help in raising my children and his earthly love in my life. And I am not alone in my devastation, his death has crashed in upon all of us, in amidst the good times we’d finally reached as a blended family!

Like always, I need to write this blog to process, this time my bone raw grief over this unexpected, unwanted, unwelcome death. FYI, I’m not looking to escape these emotions, or to lessen my deep mourning for him. The depths of my despair reflects the density of my love for him and this is a barefooted journey across broken glass in honour of him and that. My Father, the first man I ever loved, my hero.

This is what I have learnt, from his sudden departure, and what I want to share. He is the first parent I have lost, there is thankfulness that this hideous experience can only happen twice. I’m not saying losing a partner or a child would be any easier, they will be just as horrendous, and probably more so, but different. A parent is the next level up from us, the step between us and our own mortality and our main source of unconditional love.

My grief is feral, loud and alive within me, needing constant release to stop it tearing me apart from the inside out. From the shattering moment I found out, guttural screams tore from deep within me, scorching the air with my misery. This was keening, and it didn’t stop until we’d cremated him, and even now, they come unbidden from no-where. This wild abandon scared my children, who kept trying to pacify me, but I had no control or wish for it. The pain, visceral and tremendous and I want them to witness it.

My grief response, was inadvertently acting out a Scottish and Irish pagan tradition. “Keen” as a noun or verb comes from the Irish and Scottish Gaelic term caoineadh (“to cry, to weep”) and references to it from the seventh, eighth and twelfth centuries are extensive. (Wiki) . I was just following my heart, in ‘anima’. This tradition is another unwisely lost from our culture, this venting is a vital part of survival and recovery.

There used to be professional ‘keeners’ that turned up to mourn the dead, along with the grieving, in exchange for just a cup of tea or a dram of whisky. And it was always women who would gather, wail and lament the loss of life. It largely disappeared in the last Century, possibly the Victorian culture had no place for this earthy response to loss?! And, “It was pretty much outlawed in Ireland,” says Muir. “It came up against the Catholic Church. The church didn’t want it. It was something that was frowned upon. When the body was laid out for the wake, the priest would come in and say prayers over it. There was an order of service, quite literally — the Catholic Church was in control of what was going on. (https://www.irishexaminer.com/lifestyle/artsfilmtv/mourning-the-loss-of-the-keening-tradition-in-ireland-415997.html)

(Further evidence to reaffirm my distaste for what Christianity became and enforced, our divorce from our own natural and basic instincts. And I conclude, once again, this is where we are going wrong, this almighty chasm can only be remedied by returning to our roots in Mother Nature. And not, as the author above writes, swallowing down our emotions and taking anti-depressants — Fuck That!)

I’ve also found that my grief is a multilayered cake, a tiramisu (that ones for you Dad — lover of all things sweet) of heartache and pain. I’m not grieving entirely for the loss of Dad, but for the disparity between for what could have been and now can’t; the loss of my ‘Disney’ type father fantasy. My inner child is seriously mourning her unmet needs, and it was her screams into the dark that kept me unable to sleep for days after he died.

There is loneliness from not having Dad in my life. Memories arrive, like sharp little knives cutting into my poor bruised heart, randomly reminding me of yet another thing that will never happen again. And I can’t help but worry that I did not appreciate the little things enough. Like the horrid annual family calendar we all bemoaned, but now there won’t be another one, I can barely breathe through my tears?! No more inane emails and ridiculous comments on my business Facebook pages, the silence is deafening.

And his sudden death has left me agonising for a final moment, the chance to say goodbye….just one more hug…. I can’t even remember my final moments with my Dad, the last words we spoke and this tortures me. We had a relationship full of goodbyes, I left home at 8 to go to boarding school and never really returned and he chose to retire abroad. This made me adept at ensuring I’d given my best finale each time we parted, but this time I didn’t? I was expecting to see him again so soon, at Christmas…..this breaks me.

We had to dispatch my Father quickly, he died in Spain and this is the, and his wife’s, culture. He died at roughly 2am Spanish time on the 24th November and we buried him on Monday 24th November at 12pm. At and up until this point, I was raging, raging that I couldn’t sit and keen him until I could no longer scream and shout, that I had to get out there and organise flights, cat care, household trivia and compose the best eulogy I could muster in the face of this cruel loss. This was not my culture!!!! But really, there was never going to be a right time to do this final act.

And despite feeling sick from the moment I found out and until it was all over and still regularly now, it was the right thing to do. There were too many firsts I didn’t want to confront, in quick succession, but I had to. And I only stayed sane by reminding myself that doing anything else would also be intolerably awful, because now everything was awful, everything was shit. Having his funeral quickly, meant we can get on with our mourning without it hideously looming in the middle distance and he saw and felt our raw, truest grief and it brought us closer together in our loss.

Silly as it was, I knew I had to see him with my own eyes to believe it was real and he really couldn’t come back. And I actually held on to a vain hope, that a miracle would happen and his heart would start again, once I saw him. But of course, that didn’t happen. But it was so helpful being able to touch him, cry directly over him, kiss him and stoke his hair for that final time. He looked peaceful and that was good. So I truly recommend this, if the person isn’t disfigured by their death, it aids with coming to terms with the reality that they really aren’t coming back. We let our children see it all too, because my 5 yr old son couldn’t understand, despite each of us telling him that Pappy had gone, he just moved on to the next person and asked them instead. Surprisingly, it wasn’t scary or macabre either.

I now appreciate why people wear black at a funeral, you feel bleached, colourless by their absence. Black reflects the bleakness of facing an endless Tomorrow without them. A clear sign of the souls internal misery, you want the World to see. I couldn’t even wear make-up, there was no point, my grief is messy and etched all over my face. I am a living picture of my loss.

Time, I have found, loses its boundaries in tragedy. He died over a week ago but it feels like a couple of days, and I want it to feel like that right now. I don’t want his passing to disappear into yesteryear, I want it up close and connected. I’m scared of losing my memories, of drifting away and not being able to recall his smell, his voice, his touch. I want to stay in the moment, even though it is a personal hell. I don’t want my membership to the dead fathers club, I’ve been hiding, because every time someone gives me their heart-felt condolences I have to acknowledge I’ve joined up.

And on top of all of this, I caught my son’s foul cold, the first I’d developed some getting into my oils. So I got a large helping of physical pain to accompany the emotional agony and because of the depths of the latter I have become really quite ill. So I feel like I am an embodiment of my grief and purging it physically. My tears are heated, I have much anger that he left, that he didn’t take care of his body to remain alive with us. So the fact that I have a disgusting cold, is no surprise in Eastern medicine, the lungs relate to emotional anger.

I know, as I’ve always known, there is life after death. Souls go through the tunnel and into the vast everything, to be rejoined with their loved ones and in time return again. My Father gave us signs throughout the day and night, that he was near, he loved us and he was at peace. However, in my grief I find am very mortal, my beliefs bringing me only momentary release. I know time will heal, but right now I don’t want to — I don’t want to let him go — ever. And in one way I won’t, I can’t, he will live on in me in my heart and around me in my children. R.I.P Dad, gone too soon, I love you so much. xxxx

Originally published at celticwitchmama.com on December 3, 2018.