Grief is a fascinating journey. I know this from how I was when Mum died back in 2009.
This time round with Dad gone for just over 2 weeks, I watch myself and note how the loss impacts.
Firstly, I am exhausted probably through over-thinking things. The fatigue has eased this week but by tea-time, I am ready for bed. Inevitably, that is not possible with family life so I battle on all too often quite literally.
I have read up enough to know that anger is part of the grieving process. It is risky though when you are nasty with those who love you and are trying to help you.
I keep thinking how Dad would try to stop me taking it out on other people particularly my husband. I veer wildly between wanting his company in a needy fashion and then wanting to be left alone. Dad was so wonderful that my husband has a nigh on impossible act to follow.
Then you have to decide on a strategy on a minute-by-minute basis. Should you indulge in pleasant memories in the hope they will provide comfort? Or should you steel yourself against remembering too much quite yet. It is like pressing a bruise – it might hurt too much.
Whilst you are doing all this, people ask how your children are coping and so you feel guilty that perhaps you are considering your own feelings too much and not those of others around you.
Guilt rears its head in dopey ways. Should I have baked for my Dad more often?
Unexpectedly, you realise all the things you did not ask him and now it is too late.
You try and work out for sure what you think about the afterlife. Has Dad gone completely or is he just somewhere else sending positive vibes your way?
Selfishly and scarily, your mind wanders to your own mortality.
You question whether there is a point to all this and if so, what it might be?
Were you expecting answers? You have come to the wrong place.