Originally posted to hearitfromhelen.com on 7th May 2019
I’ve been trying to write around the 7th of each month, each time one month further in my grief journey and around the anniversary of the passing of my dear Dad. It’s taken me 2 weeks to write this, mostly because of said grief. This is my update, two months on.
The initial numbness has now mostly passed. Far from feeling as though this can’t be real, it now feels real, so real, too real. There has been sleepless nights, anxiety attacks, crying episodes, suicidal thoughts, forgetfulness, loss of focus, overeating, undereating, clinginess, inability to cooperate and overall general fussiness.
I told my husband a few days ago that it felt like “a bad dream that I can’t wake up from”. This bad dream is real, I’m not dreaming that my Dad is dead anymore, my Dad, my favourite, loved, my Dad, the best Dad, is dead, gone, cremated. He’s now just ashes and memories, and that is a very, very hard pill to swallow.
Some of the harder memories are coming back now and they are replacing the more special ones. Seeing my Dad, frightened and gasping for breath, the ventilator, dialysis, the blood coursing up and down the tubes, those memories are there. The memories of Dad in knitted jumpers are still there, but they sort of co-exist alongside the not-so-nice ones.
This morning, while I was pinning some cables to the wall, I wanted to tell children that Father Christmas was real, he’s just.. well.. Dead. You see, my Dad used to do Santa’s grottos, he used to do them at my nursery and he used to do them for several other places, too. There were no wrong intentions, just making sure lots and lots of girls and boys had something for Christmas. Cards from Santa Claus was another one he did, anything to keep the magic alive, and now, boys and girls, my Dad is dead,
Santa is dead.