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Meeting Grief

Once, I heard a story about a young girl whose father passed away. Her father was diagnosed with cancer, and within a year, he was gone. Before her father became ill, the young girl walked through life as if she lived in a snow globe. She was comfortable, the glass encapsulated her, she was safe, and she always felt a sense of familiarity due to her safe surroundings. Everything she saw was through the protection of the glass. The outside world's problems never poisoned her life. 

 

However, the cancer diagnosis created a small crack in her snow globe. Her sheltered life was slowly drifting away. The real world and its problems began to seep in. As the crack began to grow, her father's sickness increased, and when he passed away, the entire snow globe was shattered. She was left scrambling, and she wailed for her normal life back. Now, she encountered life without the protection of the glass. Nothing was ever the same, and she needed to adapt to her new life without protection. 

 

Before December 30th, 2023, the lens that I saw life through was very similar to a snow globe. The moments I lived were plush and fluffy. I was protected. The past year's events were special, and everything I encountered in 2023 was exceptional. My snow globe was the best of the best, top of the shelf, and one of a kind. My family and I were so proud of everything I had achieved. My life was smooth, and the hardships I faced were minuscule compared to what I face now. I am mad at the moments when I felt my snow globe was not as unique or special as others. 

 

For 21 years, my family was intact. Everything was normal, my future was clear, and I had meaningful moments that glistened ahead. I was happy; I was so happy. On December 30th, my happy snow globe, which I understood so well, was hammered, dropped, kicked, and thrown up against the wall. There was no little crack, there was no warning, there was no eerie feeling, there was nothing. Now, I stand at the base of my snow globe; the glass that protected me lies all around me. There is no shield anymore as I gasping for air. 

 

As I write this, it has been almost two months since my father passed away. Every day, I try to find a new sense of how to go about day-to-day in life now that my father is gone. At first, I underestimated the complexities of grief. I mistakenly understood the mourning process as something that differed from person to person, but it was the same foundationally. I was overwhelmingly wrong. There is no system to understand grief, no one process, and no one symptom.

 

I want to walk you through a journey of moments, feelings, and emotions that are particular to me. I want to preface my work with a mutual understanding between myself and the reader. The sensations I describe do not apply to everyone, and I am not asking them to. I am not telling you how to feel or that there is a right way to grieve; however, this is my process, and I hope you can take something away from reading this, even if it is just to understand better my personal methods of grieving as a final semester college student about to start her adult life.

The Act of Mourning 

Before my father passed away, I viewed grief as simple as having strep throat. When having strep throat, I remember having specific symptoms like a scratchy throat, and a sudden pain when I swallowed. As a child, I remember running to my mom and saying, “Mom, my throat is sore!” she would pull the flashlight out of the junk drawer. I remember opening my mouth and her shining the light on my throat. I remember her crinkled-up face as she said, “Rebecca, I think you need to go to the doctor. You have white spots on your tonsils.” I remember going to the doctor, a wooden stick jabbed into my throat, a test being run, and the result being positive. I remember leaving the clinic, getting a prescription, and returning to school in a few days.

 

When my dad passed away, I remember looking for a simple prescription. I wanted to run to my mom and ask for help. I thought that understanding my emotions would be just as easy as going online and looking up common symptoms of grief. I wish grief were this simple, but grief isn’t, and it really pains me to say I don’t think my grieving process will ever be.

 

Within the first couple of days of my father’s passing, weird ideas, theories, and thoughts were running through my head. I could not stop thinking: Are the emotions I am feeling normal? Am I normal? What is normal for someone who is grieving? I remember my grandmother’s voice running through my head after both of her parents died. She told me that she found the five stages of grief very comforting as she learned how to navigate her life without both of her parents. I remember lying in bed within a week of my father's death and looking up online 'what are the five stages of grief?' A multitude of different responses came pouring in, essentially all saying the same idea: denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. 

 

Staring at the Healthline article about the five stages, I wondered, what the hell are these? Denial and depression made a little bit of sense. However, what haunted me the most were anger and bargaining. When will I be able to get angry at my dad for dying? My dad didn’t want to die. My dad didn't want to leave me. How could I ever be mad at my dad for something he had no control over? He wanted to be here with my mom, my brother, and me. He wanted to live. He wanted to play golf, he wanted to see me graduate, he wanted to continue to create a beautiful life with my mom, and he wanted to see my brother start a family. However, was I actually wrong the entire time, and am I supposed to be angry at the world? Who should I be mad at?

 

I remember thinking, what does bargaining mean? My father is gone, and there is nothing I can do to bring him back. My father died peacefully in his sleep. He was just taking an afternoon nap. There is nothing I could have done! Please don’t pressure me to stay up all night wondering, what if we just came home a little bit earlier? Could we have saved him?

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Rather than hoping to be angry at my dad for dying or hoping to bargain with someone to bring my dad back, I felt a strong sense of confusion. When my father first passed away, I could barely do anything at all because my mind was in shock. I couldn't make sense out of the situation. Sometimes, that would make me feel sad, angry, anxious, happy, and so many other feelings. Picking a random string of five words, will not be able to consolidate all of the feelings I have been having after my father passed away, so confusion is where I find comfort. 

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Those intrusive thoughts made me quickly realize I intensely disliked the five stages of grief. To be honest, I hated them; nonetheless, I wanted to understand where they came from and why they became so widely adopted. In The Grieving Brain, the author, Mary-Frances O’Connor, dives deeper into the underlying advancements in understanding grief. Elizabeth Kübler-Ross developed the five stages of grief in her novel On Death and Dying in 1969 (O’Connor, 54). Kübler-Ross grew up in Zurich, and in her youth, she volunteered at WWII refugee camps. Her perspective on death left a prolific mark on her, and when she became a psychiatrist in the United States, she began to study individuals who were terminally ill. 

 

At the time, her discoveries were a giant leap for the psychological community to understand the bereavement process for those who are terminally ill; however, it was not accurate to describe the stages for people who are grieving over time. While Kübler-Ross was correct in how she was able to communicate the commonalities between patients who are terminally ill. Not all grieving people go through all or any stages, especially not in a specific order. The five stages of grief are not a proven method to understand the process of loss and bereavement. 

 

The model acquired widespread awareness as it touched the minds and hearts of many individuals during its acquisition. Due to Kübler-Ross's framework reaching immense popularity, the five stages of grief are still one of the most widespread formats for people to find comfort in during times of grief. Additionally, the five-stage framework is historically part of the curriculum within entry-level psychology classes in the United States, leading to more familiarity with the processes. 

 

Over time, Kübler-Ross’s methods of grief have been continuously updated. More specifically, David Kessler added the sixth stage of grief: finding acceptance. The new additions to the stages five stages of grief have allowed the ideas from it to continue for generations. Ultimately, the framework's resources remain to be persistently recommended to those grieving and looking to understand how to handle grief. The book On Grief and Grieving: Finding the Meaning of Grief Through the Five Stages of Loss, forwarded by Maria Shriver, warns readers that the process of stages is not linear and “grief is as individual as our lives” (7). After describing the stages, Shriver discusses many feelings a person could experience, followed by real-life examples. The anecdotal elements made me feel very uneasy, and it was only more painful to uncover stories of grief by people who may or may not be real. 

 

People find comfort in telling their personal stories while grieving to help console the bereaved. Throughout my grieving process, I have seen this numerous times with people around me who are grieving and myself. For instance, close family and friends often try to console me by telling me about their personal experiences with losing a close loved one. To be completely honest, when hearing stories from people about their personal grieving process, I have very mixed emotions. At the very beginning, when most people tell me about their experiences with grief, it makes me want to scream from the top of my lungs. I felt very strongly that everyone has different experiences with grief, and telling me I will persevere can help me do nothing.

 

For me, as I grieve for my father, the only person who can help me is myself. While I can listen to the stories of family friends who are now 60 years old and how they lost their father two years ago, you can never truly understand what it feels like to lose their father at 21. I try to be sympathetic to their grieving process, and losing a parent of any age, gender, or personal background is extremely difficult. Regardless, my father was a unique person, and his death was a unique situation, just like all deaths. However, other than myself, everyone around me will not understand how it feels to lose their father right before they are about to graduate, right before they were going to start their full-time job, and right before I enter adulthood. 

 

Nonetheless, there have been moments where I am hit with the wicked understanding that I am not the only person who lost their father throughout their undergraduate careers. I have learned that everyone’s grieving experiences are different, but over time, I have realized there can be some similarities between me and others. The shoe doesn’t fit perfectly, but it feels snug enough for me to find a sense of relatability with those who have also lost their fathers in their younger years. My understanding of grief has evolved, and in special situations, I can find serenity in speaking with others as I grieve.

 

I felt this when I called my friend the first day I came back onto campus after my father passed away. The friend I called lost her father during her freshman year of undergrad. When I called her, I told her a week after my father’s funeral, and when I spoke to her, it finally felt like someone understood. Everything she was saying resonated with me in some capacity. Especially when she reflected on what it was like to be at her father’s funeral, this is when everything came into hyperfocus. 

 

She told me that being at the funeral felt like being a hostess. You were required to stand at the front of the room and greet people. Thank them for coming and saying, ‘Please, allow me to bring you to my father now so you can show your respects.’ Ask the attendees how they are doing and make small talk with dozens and dozens of people, sometimes even strangers. When she said these words, I felt an immense amount of clarity, like a fog had been lifted. Now, someone understood how difficult that day was for my family and I. I could describe without judgment the absurdity of the traditions during a typical funeral of a Western civilization. All of us, me, my friend, my family, and my friend’s family, went through the horror of putting a father to rest, yet we both had to do it to show respect to our fathers and the people around us who cared for them. 

 

Kübbler-Ross pioneered grief research and used personal anecdotes to describe the stages, and updates have been made on her initial discoveries. Nonetheless, I believe her five stages still have a strong sense of structuring. To me, there is no structure to the processing of an immense death. I can see how the different stories of grief portrayed by Shriver and the experiences of different people can provide a sense of camaraderie or togetherness to the bereaved. Yet, my emotions are too broad to be put into one-word phrases or stories to describe how I am feeling about grief, like denial, anger, bargaining, depression, and acceptance. Also, I believe the five stages are not correctly promoted to the general public. People are not getting the full picture of Kübbler-Ross's research and her process of uncovering the five stages. On the other hand, moving forward with my modes of understanding grief, when applying the frameworks to my life, not every method needs to fit together perfectly, but maybe a piece of the framework will help me move forward.

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Moving past Kübbler-Ross’s five stages of grief, great developments have come forward concerning how individuals process grief within the past couple of decades. The three methods commonly used in professional counseling are Therese Rando’s Six R’s of Mourning, the grief researcher William Worden’s Tasks of Mourning, and Stroebe and Schut’s Dual Process Model of Coping with Bereavement. All of the methods respond to Kübbler-Ross's five stages of grief but display a more modern perspective. 

 

Therese Rando’s Six R’s of Mourning are not stages of grief but are seen as different emotional states that a person is going through in their bereavement process. Rando believes that in the Six R’s, a person must go through each step in a specific order presented in the framework. Rando defines mourning in six states (the Six R’s) into three emotional categories. The Six R’s are recognizing the loss, reacting to the separation, recollecting and re-experiencing, relinquishing old attachments, readjusting, and reinventing. The three emotional categories are avoidance, confrontation, and accommodation. 

 

  • The avoidance phase has one task, and that is to recognize the loss. Dr. Rando suggests that the bereaved must recognize the death has occurred; if that is not achieved, they will remain in this phase. 

  • The confrontation phase deals with how the bereaved can express the complex set of emotions they feel. This phase has three tasks:

    • React to the Separation: We will react to our emotions and the changes created by our loss, including the loss of security, identity, traditions, and routines. These are known as secondary losses. 

    • Recollect and Re-Experience: Involves reviewing memories and experiences shared with the loved one lost. This could be visiting a place that was special to the both of you or even completing small day-to-day activities you once did together. According to Rando, this is important to how we continue our relationship with a loved one after they are gone. 

    • Relinquishing Old Attachments: This task is a long process. It involves accepting that our old life will never be the same after the loss, and we will start processing the impact the loss has on us. 

  • In the accommodation phase, the bereaved begins to find meaning – from both the loss and life. 

    • Readjust: The bereaved start finding new roles in life and responsibilities. A new identity is formed, as well as a new relationship with the deceased.

    • Reinvest: This is finding a new sense of happiness in life again. A new hobby or project might form. Dr. Rando describes this task as learning to live again. 

 

The Six R’s of Mourning framework is more attainable, yet elements of the structure are difficult to comprehend. I find it fascinating that compared to her framework to Elizabeth Kübbler-Ross, acceptance, or recognizing the loss, is the first step in the process compared to Kübbler-Ross, where acceptance is the final stage of the grieving process. As someone who is grieving, this is much easier said than done, and acceptance is very subjective to how a person understands what recognizing the loss means to them. There are moments when I forget my father has passed away, and I start thinking about him as if he were still alive. I quickly realize he is gone, but there are still moments when I need reassurance. The moments when I realize that my father is no longer here with me are some of the hardest moments. Does this mean I haven’t made it through the first phase? Am I doing this right? Just because I feel like my dad is still here, does that mean I am prolonging the pain of the grieving process?

 

Rando’s Six R’s of Mourning is a rigid process. Strict instructions stated explicitly by Rando that one cannot move past one phase unless completing another is too concrete for someone who is grieving. The process of grief is too unpredictable to anticipate, and I feel like there is too much pressure when a timeline is added to the bereavement process. For instance, a person who is grieving might have to deal with their emotions in Phase 2, Task 1–the React to the Separation, and handle the feeling of loss of routine before the bereaved is really able to handle the loss of their loved one. Reading the frameworks in hopes of finding relatability is good in some elements because it can help me see grief through a different lens. However, I cannot shake the feeling that frameworks make me feel pressure to fit into a box, and compare myself in direct parallelism to phases or stages. 

 

Unlike Kübbler-Ross and Rando, Worden's strategies take a more fluid approach to understanding grief and present the frameworks as less straightforward patterns. Worden uses psychiatrist George Engel’s analogy of healing to describe how a grieving person can accomplish some of these tasks and not others – like a person might not completely heal or recover function following a wound. Worden believes that experience varies widely and is influenced by many things, such as a person’s age, gender, relationship with the deceased, culture, personality, previous experiences, coping skills, and social support. 

Worden’s Task of Mourning takes a more flexible approach, acknowledging that some wounds that grief causes will never disappear. Worden and Rando’s approaches are similar, but Worden makes the process more moldable. As I have continued to grieve within the first couple of months of my father’s death, I have found myself discovering how dependent a person’s grieving process is on the person’s background, personal experiences, and relationship with the deceased. Worden’s emphasis on the uniqueness of grief is very powerful to me and helps me better understand the complexities a significant death can have on a person. A person dying is not like having strep throat. There isn’t an antibiotic I can pick up and take, making everything feel better again. Everyone’s grief process is rare and based on a person's circumstances. 

 

Stroebe and Schut’s Dual Process Model of Coping with Bereavement, or the Dual Process Model for short, looks at everyday experiences and how people go about their daily lives as they grieve. Stroebe and Schut break down everyday experiences into two stressors that the bereaved face when a loved one dies. The first stressor is called loss-oriented or is described as the painful emotions of losing someone. This can be described as how everything seems to remind us of them, even though they are gone. The second stressor is called restoration-oriented. These are all the tasks that the bereaved must do now that the loved one is gone. For instance, these would include grocery shopping, a weekly call, or figuring out your taxes. The most interesting aspect of this process is the idea that there is an oscillation between the loss-oriented and the restoration-oriented stressors. Sometimes, the oscillation occurs within one day or other times, it is much shorter. 

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After learning about the Dual Process Model, I felt like a lightbulb had gone off. Something clicked with me; something felt like I was being heard and understood. When my father passed away, I was at home with my parents while on break from the University of Michigan. I was set to return to school nine days after his unanticipated death. I knew I didn’t need to return immediately, but I wanted to return to a place of familiarity, and I went back nine days later. Since being back on campus, my emotions have been very erratic. There is a precise moment that I feel best describes my raw feelings after returning to university. 

 

The first week back to school started on a Wednesday. The University of Michigan’s football team had just won the National Championship and, in the semi-finals, had played and won the game against the University of Alabama. My father and I would frequently discuss football, and I would never be able to think about football and not think of him. I remember waking up one morning, getting on my phone, and seeing the news that the University of Alabama’s coach, Nick Saban, was retiring. Without thinking, I picked up my phone and tried to text my dad to tell him the news. Words cannot describe the type of pain I had when I had no dad to text. Looking back on this moment, all I can think of is an overwhelming sense of loneliness and the ache of wanting him back so I can have one more conversation with him.


The strangest part about this moment of sadness is I had to pick myself up and move on to the next part of my day. I did this in a matter of minutes. One second, I was crying, the next second I was getting my bag to go to my first day of classes. This is the feeling of oscillation. There is constant moving back and forth from normal daily life to immense feelings of sadness. To me, there are no steps of grief; there are no tasks for me to follow. The steps allow me to categorize my feelings, but my sadness occurs only when my brain allows it to surface. The single action I can fully understand is I am going through waves of sorrow. My feelings burst in and out and are going back and forth as I learn to navigate my life without my father.

The Act of Crying 

Why am I embarrassed to cry? Or am I embarrassed to cry? Why do I always make myself stop whenever I start crying? Crying has never been easy for me to do when I am sad. I cry when I am frustrated. I don’t cry when I am sad. I suppress those feelings. There is a strong sense of vulnerability when I cry out of sadness. It takes a lot of courage for me to cry. I never allow myself to wallow in my feelings of sadness. There are too many things for me to do rather than just sit in my sadness. 

 

When my father first passed away, all I felt like doing was crying. I felt like I couldn’t get a full breath of air, and if I did, I would let out a sob. I couldn’t look at a picture of my father without crying, I couldn’t make a phone call without crying, I couldn’t look at my mother without crying, and I couldn’t stare off into space without crying. I could do nothing but cry. Endless crying was something I had never done before, and I hated it. After my father passed away, I would find myself crying, and to stop crying, ironically, I would think of my father in the few moments when he would cry. 

 

My father’s mother passed away when I was 12 years old. Mimi, is what I called her, died while she was in her 80s. She had been living in hospice care for a few months before she passed away, and without verbally announcing it, we were preparing for her death. The day she passed away, I remember eating dinner with my mom and dad. My dad was sitting on the couch, like he always did, eating dinner. While eating my dinner, I heard the most horrible sound in the kitchen.

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In books, you read, he wailed, she wailed, I wailed, but that is something you just read, and you move on to the next sentence. I never thought much about what the word wailed sounded like. However, that night, that word came to life as my father sat eating his dinner on the couch. My father wailed for his mother; he wailed for her as I wailed for him after his death. The horrid sound still echoes in my ears as I write this, and I am reminded that the reason my father wailed was because he was seeking to suppress his cry. Now, we all wail, my brother, my mother, his closest friends, for my father as he did for his mother. That was one of the last times I heard my father cry and the only time I saw my father cry for his mother. The last moment my father cried for his mother is a constant reminder to stay strong when thinking of my father, just like he did when he lost his mother. 

 

During important moments in the first couple of weeks after my father’s death, I continued suppressing my cry. I choked on my sob in moments like when my mom and I called his friends and family to tell him about his sudden passing, when I was writing his obituary, and when people came up to me during his funeral and told me how proud he was of me. I would do everything I could to stop myself from letting my lower lip quiver. To stop myself from crying, I would think about the moment on the couch when my father cried for his mother.

 

My father hated crying, and so do I. My dad wouldn’t want me to cry for him; he would want me to show strength. As a child and as an adult, whenever I would cry in front of him due to frustration, never sadness, he would tell me to grow up. I should never let my emotions get the best of me. I had nothing significant to be crying for. It is funny, now, after my father's death, all I want to do is cry for him. I cannot help but wonder if this time it is good enough. dad, is it okay for me to cry now?

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As the days turned into weeks without my father, I felt the emptiness in my stomach becoming whole again, especially once I returned to campus. The moments of deep sadness would come and go and are very unpredictable. My sadness and feeling of the need to cry often come with sleep deprivation, in moments that remind me of my father, when I think about my future, or in recent surprise after I dream about him. The moments when I cry are different every time. Sometimes I sob, sometimes my tears pool into my eyes, and sometimes the emptiness in my stomach comes back, and I cannot take a full breath without crying for my father. I am overwhelmed with the worry of when my sadness will come, so I still seek to have control over it. 

 

Everything is a glimmer of white as Rebecca walks into the Floridian condo. The floor is white and glistening. The walls are white and freckled with the modern pieces of art. The couch is white and speckled with threads of grey, emphasizing the contemporary atmosphere. The railings to the lani are white, holding her back from getting too close to the edge. After the railings was the only source of color– the Gulf of Florida, a glistening poignant blue cascading for miles. 

 

However, Rebecca was distracted. Her father, whom she loved deeply, sat on the couch before her. His left leg was tucked under his right, the Costco bulk black reading glasses perched on his nose, and caseless iPad in hand as he played solitaire. Somehow, the words quickly came to her lips, “Dad, how are you here? Dad, what is going on?” He looks up to meet her eyes, and she runs over to him on the white couch, grabs his shoulder, and shakes it. Grabbing his face, she says, “Dad, please speak to me. Do you remember what happened?” He remains still, alive, and yet unresponsive. 

 

Both she and her father fall to the ground. She sits facing the ocean with her father's head in her lap, stroking his soft salt and pepper hair. She looks at him now and says, “Dad, please talk to me. Don’t you remember that day? Mom and I came home after the cooking class. We had croissants for you. The pastries were burnt, but we brought them home for you anyway. You were supposed to eat those pastries! Dad, please answer me.” She held her father's head in her lap, and slowly, like sand on a beach, he drifted away piece after piece. His face was the last piece to disintegrate, leaving an everlasting imprint on her memories. 

 

Rebecca's eyes open, and hot tears stream out of her eyes. She lies in a dark room and starts to sob, realizing her father is gone. Rebecca is overwhelmed with the knowledge that she still feels him around her. His presence is still alive; this was just one of those endless triggers reminding her he was still gone.

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As I continued to go through the grieving process, the phrase kept running through my head: Am I normal? To help me find this answer, I started to go to counseling. I started to explore my relationship with crying, and now I am trying to find a new meaning to express this emotion of sadness. I hope to find a healthier understanding of my oscillation of grief, and if it helps me cry, I will. To help me see the benefits of crying, I sought out the novel The Anatomy of Grief by Dorothy Holinger. The sixth chapter, called The Grieving Body, discusses the power of tears. 

 

Holinger discusses two patients of the British psychoanalyst as they discuss the relevance of their tears. One patient who has experienced death realized how important crying was for grieving a deep loss by writing the verse: “Leave me my grief. Thus, undisturbed/By clamorous help, I still may weep. / While tears can flow / Love is not dead.” Another patient said she dreamt that she was in deep water, but the water was so salty that it held her up, and she knew there was no fear of drowning. Holinger mentions that crying can reduce stress and that “crying after a loved one’s death is generally healthy and beneficial” (124). 

 

Holinger mentions the three different types of tears and their influence on the human body. The three basic tear types are basal, reactive, and emotional. Basal tears keep the eyes moist and protect them from drying out. Reactive tears clear the eyes from dust and other irritants. Emotional tears can occur for many different reasons. They can come in response to laughter, joy, and sadness. Emotional tears are very interesting due to the unique protein-based stress hormones adrenocorticotropin, prolactin, and leucine-enkephalin. Leucine-enkephalin is a natural painkiller, and this is why some people feel better after crying. 


Not only do tears provide a sense of release and hope, but they can also be depicted as visually distinct. The shapes, patterns, and textures of tears caused by different emotions like laughter, joy, and grief all look different from one another. The artist Rose-Lynne Fisher photographed this phenomenon. Her technique was to drop the tears onto slides and let them dry, either naturally in the open air or under a coverslip. Fisher’s book, The Topography of Tears, published over a hundred images of tears she shed by herself and others. The interesting aspect of Fisher’s project is that tears have different patterns and represent different things.

Crying is something I am beginning to accept. Still, it is something I want to keep private, yet I am finding this impossible. One of the most difficult parts of my grieving process is how uncontrollable everything feels. Two months ago, I was someone who could count on one hand how many times I would cry in a year. Now, I need two hands to count how many times I have cried in one week. I am worried about my self-image. I am worried that a year from now, I will be sitting in an important meeting in my post-graduate job, and something will remind me of my dad, and then I will start to cry. Some people say time heals all wounds, but how can the mark my father left on my life ever heal over?

The Act of Irregularity 

When my dad first passed away, I felt like everyone knew. After the first three phone calls to my closest family and friends of my father, my mom was getting messages of condolences from people we hadn’t spoken to in years. My mom and I lived through the same moments in those first couple of weeks. The same phone calls, the same interactions, the same meetings with funeral homes. We were together in our grief. When I returned to Ann Arbor, I felt like I was back to normal. I was comforted by the normal I was so desperately seeking. I was finally back to feeling like my dad wasn’t gone.

 

When I was on campus, I got to choose who to tell. I told my roommates, my writing class, one random girl at a party, a few professors, and my therapist. That was it. The advantage of being from a small town is that everyone knows once someone dies. The disadvantage of being from a small town is that everyone knows once someone dies. This is what my mom was going through. The advantage of being on a campus of 40,000 people after your dad dies is that no one knows. The disadvantage of being on a campus of 40,000 people after your dad dies is that no one knows. This is what I am going through. Everyone’s experience with grief, even if it is grief about the same person, can project completely different perspectives. In the end, there is no easy way out. 

 

Along with Worden’s efforts to make the grieving process digestible through tasks, he attempts to understand the bereaved's wide range of behaviors and reactions through the mediators of mourning. Worden breaks down seven mediators that impact the grievers during their mourning process. There are hundreds or even thousands of variables that could impact how the death of their loved one shapes the griever. Understanding each component only adds to the complexity of death; however, after reading the seven mediators, I found three that particularly resonate with me: how the person died, historical antecedents, and social support. 

 

Worden accentuates the impression of how the loved one died through the second mediator. My father died right before the 2024 New Year. He passed away while I was home in Florida during the winter break of my senior year of college. His passing was sudden, yet peaceful, but nevertheless very unexpected. My father's sudden passing greatly how I am handling his death. For example, I decided to move on and return to school fast. I still remember people asking me at the funeral, which was three days before I decided to return to school, whether or not I would be postponing my graduation due to my father’s sudden passing. I think my father and I both laughed at everyone who asked me that. I could have taken my time or a few weeks off of school, but I decided against it. I yearned to go back to Ann Arbor, be with my friends, see my boyfriend, and party a couple more times. I was desperate to turn my graduation tassel from right to left on time like normal

 

When I returned to campus, I was fragile. I was pissed off to be honest. Everything was bothering me, and the simplest things were so much harder to do than normal. During the first week of class, all you do is read the syllabi, and even that was hard for me. I remember feeling like in every room I sat in, people were looking at me and seeing a tattoo written on my forehead saying, “My dad just died.” 

 

I sought refuge, and I confided in my friend, who also lost her father during her undergrad. Reflecting on her father’s death, which happened almost exactly two years ago, she kept telling me how months three and four were the hardest. Her words have been endlessly echoing in my mind. As I write this, I realize that those months are quickly approaching me, and I am scared. I am scared about many things, but I am really scared about the upcoming year too. I am scared of being caught off guard by grief, I am scared to cry in front of others, I am scared I will be sitting in a meeting during my first full-time job, and suddenly I will need to cry. Worden states that “survivors of those who die sudden deaths, especially young survivors, have a more difficult time than people with advance warning a year or 2 years later” (pg. 5). When will the grief end? Will it really end there in 2 years? I think I have the right to be scared, but am I overthinking my grief by worrying about the future?

 

I am desperately scared for my mother, too. While at home with my mother the first week and a half after my father's passing, I slept with her every night and did the same when I visited her in Florida a month after his death. At first, it bothered me to sleep where my father slept, but soon, that became a sense of comfort because I got to be with my mother. I got to tell her goodnight, wake up next to her, and ensure she was alive and well. When she would fall asleep before me, often I would get out of bed, walk over to her, and be desperate to see her stomach rise and fall. I was desperate to see her breathing. I was desperate to see her alive. She was all I had left. Worden states that during the sudden deaths of a parent, children remain fearful of their surviving parent's safety 2 years after the death (pg. 6). I am thinking about my mother all of the time. Not only about her health but also about her mind. I am scared she is consumed by sadness and overwhelmed. Other times, I am mad at myself for worrying about my extremely strong and independent mother. I cannot help but wonder, am I worried about my mother to avoid my own grief?

 

My father’s father died when he was 19 at the age of 58. My father died when I was 21 at the age of 61. His father’s death was sudden, just like his own. While I never knew my grandfather, his death weighed heavily on my own father, and he carried the grief for his entire adult life. The second time I remember my father’s wail was in my freshman-year dorm when my parents dropped me off at college. One second, we were putting away my clothes, lofting my bed, setting up my desk for my virtual classes, and everything was fine. The next second, I heard that sound again. A choke, a sob, a howl. My father wailed. I whipped my head to confirm the noise. I look at my mother wide-eyed. I didn’t know what to do. 

 

Frozen momentarily, I walk over to him and put my hand on his shoulder. He continue to wail, and as he shook off my hand, I said, “Dad, it is ok. I will be fine here. You can see me anytime you want.” He continues to wail, and in my confusion, I look at my mother. I cannot help but have the feeling of laughing. My masculine, strong father is now in my college dorm room wailing because I am leaving home for the first time in my life. My mother walks over to him too, stunned by his reaction, laughs at him a little bit, and says, “Todd, it is ok, really.”

 

He lifts his head and says, blubbering, “My father, I miss my father.” Shocked, I took a step back due to the abrupt statement and the realization I had. My father wasn’t crying for me. He was crying because of the moments he missed with his father. My grandfather passed away during my father’s first semester of college at a four-year university. After his father's death, he stopped going to the university and went to a local two-year community college. Later, he took over the family business his father once ran. I will never truly know, but in that moment, I believe my father cried for more than just his father; he selfishly cried for everything he lost during his youth and what he was losing now. 

 

I cannot help but feel a sense of irony from my own father's death. My father was greatly affected by the sudden death of his own father, and I always thought my dad would live much longer than my grandfather. Sometimes, I would even imagine myself meeting my grandfather. I always wondered, would Harold like me? I never thought my dad would die in his sixties, but now, looking back, I cannot help but think: How didn’t I see it coming? I wonder now, dad, are you happy? Are you with your father?

 

The fourth mediator is historical antecedents. Worden mentions the power of previous losses on the bereaved. My father’s paternal lineage medical history is riddled with various health issues and sudden deaths. Both my father and his own passed away from sudden heart attacks. My father’s oldest sister, Tracy, passed away from a car accident in her early teens, and my father’s second oldest sister, Hilary, passed away in 2020 due to early onset dementia in her mid-60s, very similar to her father’s mother many decades before her. I have two relatives from my father’s side: my brother and uncle. I believe the generational trauma of sudden and untimely deaths burdens all of our minds. As men in my family, heart complications are frequent and weigh the heaviest on my brother at age 31 and my uncle at age 57. For me, I am worried about following in the footsteps of my aunt. My father’s death only exacerbated our concerns about death. Lately, I have been transfixed with the thought, how do I end the cycle of endless worrying about my unexpected death and those I love the most?

 

The sixth mediator, social variables, emphasizes the importance of grieving with others. Worden found that, while having a social support system does not accelerate the grieving process, having people around you whom the bereaved can grieve with can alleviate various elements of emotional pain. On February 8th, 2024, I went home for the first time since my father had died. I wanted to spend the weekend with my mother because it was my father's 62nd birthday on the 13th. My parents had been living in a social community in Florida since I was a freshman in undergrad. While the community was big, my parents were active, and my family was known in the community, making it feel small. The first night I was home, my mom and I got a drink at a bar located in the community. 

 

At the bar, there were only a few people. About halfway through my first drink, two men, who were friends of my father, came up to my mother and I to give us their condolences. The men were slightly awkward; however, I was fixated on these strangers coming and talking to my mother and me. I could not believe what was happening. They mentioned how they knew where I would be working post-grad, how much my father loved me, how truly sorry they were, and how proud my father was of me. 

 

The day my father passed away, and I said my final goodbyes, I could not stop saying to him how I hoped he was proud of me. I kept saying, “Everything I have ever done was for you and was to make you proud.” I know, without a doubt, my father was proud of me. However, it was a compliment that came rarely, but when it did, I knew it came from the bottom of his heart. In Florida with my mother, I am faced with her everyday reality of dealing with grief. When I am surrounded by people who either personally know my father or mother, people remind me of his death everywhere I go and show me their support. I see it in their eyes and their words. 

 

On campus, I have a strong support system consisting of people I care for most. However, I only see their support through their eyes and less so through their words. While they are some of the closest individuals in my life, I see them struggling to ask about my grieving process. Being on campus, I only grieve by myself in my room alone, for my mother, specifically, has no choice. She grieves in the Florida condo where they spend the most time together when she walks past the bar they would go to at the mall and when she gets those weekly, ‘I’m thinking of you’ text messages from her closest friends. It can happen anywhere at any moment. Those social variables greatly impact the differences between our grieving processes. 

 

When people tell me how proud my father was of me, it reminds me of his funeral, an event I try not to remember. At my father’s funeral, people must have told me how proud he was of me over ten times. Every time someone said to me how proud my father was of me, I felt the overwhelming emotion to cry, and those moments of deep sadness forced me to sit with my grief. I would cry because I knew I would never be able to hear my father tell me those sacred words again. 

 

After the night at the bar, I cried hysterically, I blubbered, and I wailed just because of the simple reminder of my dad. The hole in my stomach reopened, and I felt again like I couldn’t take a deep breath. This was a loud awakening, again, that grief and the process of mourning are so incredibly different from person to person. In Ann Arbor, I was able to disappear. No one knew about my father unless I let them know. For my mom, everyone knows. She is more upset when someone doesn’t know. For the most part, I sit and contemplate whether or not I should tell someone about my father's death longer than I actually let myself grieve. My family, and especially my father, is very private to me, and as strange as it sounds, I find comfort in keeping my father and his memory to myself. Is it better to have random moments of support evoking unprepared moments of grief or have nothing at all? 

 

The irregularity of grief can be seen through moments of dialog. At the beginning of the semester, I was asked about one hundred times: 'How was your winter break?' I couldn’t find the courage to say to some random person in class, well, not great, my dad died. When is the right moment to tell someone? Is there ever a right moment? Should I keep my mourning process to myself? Why am I so afraid of how a person might act or respond? Will I ever be able to find the language of my grief?

 

Verbally, words like death, grief, and mourning can really knock the wind out of you. You don’t think about the small ways language can be just sharp enough to leave such a significant wound. Also, talking about my mom without my dad is so weird now. Am I going to my parent's house now or my mom's? Where does my cat live? She lives with my parents, or wait, no, she lives with my mom. Where are you from? 'I am from Michigan, but my parents…no, I mean, my mom lives in Florida.' I need to use this new language, but it constantly reminds me of the person I lost. How do I keep the special memory of my father concealed to just me?

 

In Chapter 3 of The Anatomy of Grief, the author, Holinger, talks about the language of the bereaved. Holinger verbalizes the sense of confidentiality that talking about the loved one who has passed brings, and the statement resonated heavily with me. “To use words—to speak—is to give up what was kept to the self. What is private and without words stays contained in the solitary world of the grief-stricken. To voice words is to reveal protected knowledge and give what has been silent a public hearing. Not to voice grief—continuing not to speak—can keep the reality of the loved one’s death out of conscious reach. Voicing makes what was private real.”

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Giving words to my father’s death makes me feel like I am sharing a piece of me with people that they don’t need to know. However, does this make me normal, or should I be screaming it from the rooftops? Will this anxiety of concealment last forever, or will it become natural over time? 

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Conclusion 

As the final semester of my senior year wraps up four months after my father’s death, I am still faced with the same questions: Today, will I wail for my dad? Today, will I feel normal? Today, will I make my father proud? Every day is so unpredictable as you grieve. One moment, I am so happy, and the next moment, I am so mad at the world. All I can do is wail. I am crying more than ever now. I cry at the little things now. I cry when I can’t flip over my omelet, and I ruin my breakfast, I cry when I see a random person’s proposal on top of a mountain in Switzerland on my TikTok, I cry every time I try to journal about my dad, and actually, I am crying right now as I write this. 


The hardest part of this journey is that I will never know if I am making my father proud again. Deep down, yes, of course, I know he is proud. However, I yearn to know why I need the validation. I wish I could know that he is watching. I am worried I will hold onto my father’s death as he held onto his own father’s death. Unlike my father, I hope to process my grief rather than internalize my emotions. I long for this piece to provide a sense of clarity for myself and the reader. In the end, all I can do is try to seek out my new normal. I will never be satisfied with the sound of my father telling me he is proud ever again. Nonetheless, I can remember the noble tone of his voice when he spoke about me; I will be reminded through my friends and family and through the confidence in myself. While I am terrified of my life without my father, I am determined to move forward into adulthood, keeping my father’s memory alive while creating my own path where I define my new sensation of personal pride.

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