Grief hijacks anything and everything—-one of the many lessons I’ve learned in the nearly three weeks since my dad died. I woke up this morning basking in the glow of momentary enlightenment, owning my gift of still being alive. Fast forward to 2:56 pm and I’m sitting alone upstairs in a mostly silent house, morose and one stray memory away from dissolving into tears. Earlier this afternoon, I spent 10 minutes or so crying in a parking lot as people around me rushed to return home. Why? Because grief hijacks anything and everything.
This post was supposed to be different. An announcement of my intention to make February freakin’ amazing. My dad, Brad Wells, was born on February 29th—-an oddity right from the word go. In the years he wasn’t gifted with a “real” birthday, we celebrated on February 28th. He would have been 59 years old at the end of this month. I have some big plans for February, plans to honor his life and the good bits of him residing in me, plans to exorcise the demons we shared in common, plans to live bravely and extravagantly. As I march toward the final day of February, a day I suspect will be filled to the brim with emotions of every shape and size, I am committing to make each day matter. But I cannot write about all those plans right now because my heart is going numb again.
Yesterday my husband kindly reminded me the healing process will be more swift and thorough if I honor and intentionally attend to my spirit and body during this time instead of denying myself the freedom to laugh, cry, rest, and mourn as needed. If my dad were here, he’d tell me to go with the flow. So this is me adrift in the hazy fog of a sobbing hangover telling you I’m still here and I’m still moving despite the heartache which shadows me each day.