Loss, Two Years Later
My dad died of what we presumed to be a heart attack on September 26th, 2014. It wasn’t unexpected. In fact, this goodbye had been 15 years in the making.
He had always been sick. Being born an identical twin in 1950 practically guaranteed malnourishment. Most twins are born premature, and my dad was definitely the weaker one of the two. By the time he was 28, he had become the first recipient of a live donor kidney transplant in Taiwan, after his identical twin brother, my wonderful uncle Edmund, gave him a kidney. It saved his life, but that was only round one of many more fights ahead.
We were in and out of hospitals in the years since, with many major and minor scares. We had talked about preferences for the burial and such, but there were just so many more details that we didn’t foresee. And there are a million other little decisions to be made after death. Even with all the “critical condition” release forms my mom had signed over the years, death is just not an easy thing to talk about, not when you’re trying to focus on fighting.
The where what when how who conversations about his affairs seemed endless, and at that point, I couldn’t care about anything. Nothing made sense. I didn’t care what size hall we rented for the memorial, or how many people we would invite. Or about the photo slideshow that needed to be played at the memorial. It was just… Weight. Overwhelming, all-consuming weight. The only thing I could think was, “I can’t do this.”
I’ve read about grief being compared to having an elephant sitting on your chest and thought, “sounds about right.” But it also felt like the floor has fallen out from under me. Despite all the years of “preparation,” losing my dad was still a deeply disorienting experience. I was terrified of falling apart. I would reach my left hand over my right shoulder, and hold the back of my neck. This became a posture I adopted regularly. I’d fall asleep crying, and wake up crying. I couldn’t see the end. This gesture felt like the chainmail armour that held me in one piece.
It was so much easier to just be angry. So I fiercely hated all the rituals. To me, the buddhist scripture and the chanting and the incense and the kowtowing… None of it made any sense to me. Why would I need incense to communicate with my dad? Why would my dad want me on my knees to show respect? This isn’t how we connected.
Two years later, I can see that the rituals had their place. They gave us something to do when we didn’t know how to be. And usually, they make you do it with family, friends, and sometimes a temple full of people who’ve also just lost someone. The rituals forced me to stay with the world when all I wanted to do was to hide in a hole and never resurface. They forced me to face the loss head on.
Another thing I decided to be angry at, as a distraction? People. People say the darndest things to you when you’ve lost someone. I hated everyone for telling me that he was “going to a better place.” He was a a kind man, well-loved and happy. Where the f**k else would he go but to a better place? Also, I’m pretty damn sure he wanted nothing more than to hang around with us for as long as possible. But again, with time, I realized that even I struggle to find the right words to say about someone’s loss.
There really is just nothing good to say (but here’s a list of 14 that you shouldn’t say, and 5 you should, by Sarah Bronner). What works? Well, for me, food helps. Bring me a burrito and just expect some waterworks. And I liked it best when people just say “that sucks.” Because it sucks so hard.
I also liked it when people share their stories of loss with me and talk about how they were feeling about it, years later. It normalized the raging emotions for me, and gave me some idea as to what I can expect from the years ahead. It also helped a great deal to know that it is perfectly normal to still have it hit you like a truckload of bricks out of nowhere, even decades later. There’s no manual for this, but the anecdotes didn’t hurt.
I wish something like StoryCorps had existed earlier, or I had been more comfortable with writing and interviewing when I was younger. There are so many stories that I missed. But no matter. On the two year anniversary of my dad’s departure, I’d like to invite you to share your stories with me. Tell me about my dad. Or tell me about anyone you’ve lost.
Here are a few things about my dad.
He loved a good show. Musicals. Concerts. Epic aerials. He’d cuss loudly, clap enthusiastically, and follow that with a perfectly enunciated “bravo” at a Yoyo Ma concert. He was a phonetics professor, after all.
He liked to write IMDB ratings on DVD cover spines (snob), but anything over an 8 he wouldn’t really be able to follow. He’d ask my mom throughout the film,”who is this guy again?” Even better, he’d go through half a movie, insisting he’s never seen it before while my mom and I went “you’re kidding, right?” And then, 15 minutes before the movie ends, “oh wait, I remember this.” [Cue facepalm for me and my mom]
He was a hell of a singer, and his duets with my Uncle Edmund, his twin, were out of this world.
And for anyone who’s hurting from a loss, here’s a quote from Sheryl Sandberg:
Option A is not available. So let’s just kick the shit out of option B.
It sucks so hard, but I promise you it gets better.
