You died on Valentine's Day. We cancelled our dinner dates to drink beer in your absence. To pack what remained of your life into plastic totes, find things you'd hidden in your underwear drawer. In the days after, people tried to find words that made sense alongside tragedy. There were none, really, that sufficed. Even in the silence, I could see the looks on their faces. My grief was uncomfortable for them. They didn't know what to do with it. There is a hole, here. Something empty inside of me. Where things fall away. My creativity, passion, drive, humour, ethics, tidiness, agility, empathy, it all falls through. People try to prop up my deadweight, dressing it in the remnants of the person I used to be. They don't know that version of me is dead. And everything that I was before this enormous affliction; it's all dead. It is not like glitter. I do not stumble upon my grief and smile at its memory. It is not God's will. It was not your time. It is not happy....
My dad died on Valentine’s Day from a cancer in his brain that he fought for a year and a half. I’ll talk about that more one day, but what I want to say now comes from the buildup and the fallout. What I want to say is not about the suffering and turmoil that I watched my dad and my family experience for that year and a half, or the milestones we hit every day that I never mentioned, like the last day he had ice cream or went outside. I want to talk about him and I will. But today, I want to talk about the aftermath. People don’t know what to say about death and dying. They tell you they’re sorry and they could never do what you’re doing, they tell you how strong you are and graceful you’re being, admire how you’re “back to work” or “still able to have fun”. Grievers are told time and time again, nobody knows what the right thing to say is. And we have grace. Giggle it off and nod our heads, tell them thank you and it’s okay. Because it is okay. They aren’t doing anything wrong t...