I’d like to start off this article by noting that despite its presence in pop culture and in some beginner psychology classes, there is a lack of empirical evidence supporting Kübler-Ross’s 5 stage model of grief. However, due to that same familiarity, I have chosen to use the Kübler-Ross grief model as a vehicle for this “Stages of Grief” series. More information about the Kübler-Ross grief model can be found here.
If you have recently lost someone you love and feel you have no one to talk to, please don’t hesitate to reach out to the Crisis Text Line by texting the word “start” to 741-741.
Dear Dad,
It has been three months, a few hours, and a handful of days.
I still can’t believe you’re gone.
It’s easier to breathe now, but a lot of things are still strange. When I call the shop, it’s not your voice that answers, but someone else’s. I don’t get weekly pictures of you making a face with the accompanying caption, “your mother.” It’s quiet when I visit, because you’re not there to blare the television as loud as you can stand. Football season started, and there’s no one to join in with Brianna to rip on how God-awful Tony Romo is. And when I’m up late trying to catch up on homework, I can’t grab my phone and shoot you a text to bemoan my misery, knowing there’s a seven out of ten chance you’ll respond because you’re awake, too.
One of my favorites
Music is still difficult; maybe because it was a topic that always got us going or because we shared a lot of favorites. I wouldn’t know. Right now, music is like a weight on my heart that’s lifted and lowered for arbitrary reasons. Some songs are off-limits one day, but are safe the next. I was able to listen to the song you walked me down the aisle to a few weeks ago though! And while I was sobbing like a baby the entire time (and haven’t been able to listen to it since) I’m still choosing to count it as a victory.
There are things that I’m able to accept: for example, I won’t be able to watch certain episodes of South Park ever again; and I won’t ever hear the question, “Do you want to get a big soda?” again. I can live with things like that.
But I can’t accept your death.
Yes, you’re gone. I get that. But psychological acceptance is defined as “a person’s assent to the reality of a situation, recognizing a process or condition without attempting to change it or protest.”
To be fair, I probably sound like a hypocrite. Several times over the course of this series, I said I wouldn’t bargain for you back and wouldn’t let myself stay stagnant in the past.
The thing is, you aren’t in my past. You are with me always: past, present, and future.
You literally and figuratively shaped me into who I am today: you’re with me in the way I talk, the way I tell stories, the way I shy away from attention and praise. You’re with me in the way I sing, the way I tease the people around me — hell, you’re even with me in the way I sit and stand and watch TV. I can’t not protest your absence because you are ingrained into every action I take, whether consciously or subconsciously.
Hopefully, scream-singing in someone's face is not a subconscious action.
People have essentially told me that we need to accept what happened and – while not necessarily “move on,” at least to learn how to live in this new reality. The thing is, I don’t think I need to accept it. I can certainly acknowledge that you’re gone — after all, how could I not? More than anything, I think that we’ve got to start living with a learning curve accounting for your absence. After all, you were always there. It’s strange to see the spots you once occupied now empty.
But we’re doing okay, considering. We leave the light on by your chair in the living room. You remember, right? The one we left on when you couldn’t sleep, so you wouldn’t knock your drink onto your computer. I think it started off as one of our many acts of defiance: if we turned off the light, it meant that you were really gone. Now I think we leave it on as an invitation – and maybe a way for you to find your way home.
I miss you. Keep an eye out for us, especially if we’re doing something stupid. Don’t stop sending us signs.
Love ya,
Ash.
