Navigating Grief: A Personal (Messy) Reflection

I was spending time with a close friend the other day and was ranting to him about my overwhelm with work, business, and trying to juggle it all; and he looked at me and said ‘Jess, I don't think this has anything to do with your business or the podcast; I think you’re struggling what's going with your Dad'. 

His words and reality check hit me like a ton of bricks; and I haven't stopped thinking about it since. What's ironic is that I teach people how to communicate their feelings for a living. I help people gain the courage to express their truth; process grief and heartache; and how to learn to become transparent in all areas of their lives. And yet, here I am, avoiding talking about one of the biggest challenges I've had to face so far. 

My Dad is very sick. 

And he is slowing slipping away. And I (for once) feel like I can't talk about it, or look directly at it. I don't know what to say when people ask; I shy away from answering questions; and maybe, just maybe, I feel like the less I talk about it, he'll one day bounce back and become healthy again. Timing is a funny thing, eighteen years sober, and I've finally been faced with something that feels too big and scary; even I can't talk my way of it. 

Two years ago my Dad was diagnosed with Lewy Body Dementia; one of the most aggressive and misunderstood forms of Alzheimer's disease. When he was first diagnosed it was shocking to us all; but he was still working full time, still at the gym everyday, and despite a few memory issues, he seemed relatively healthy and just like my same ol' sarcastic Dad. 

A few short months later, things started to progress rapidly. He fundamentally changed as a person; he rapidly lost weight; he developed this empty stare in his eyes; he started to hallucinate and talk to people who weren't there; and within less than a year, was no longer looking my fit, strong, funny, Dad. 

I'm realizing that grief is a very tricky thing. I've grieved breakups; I grieved my relationship with drugs and alcohol; but I've never grieved someone this close to me; especially not while they're still alive. 

My Dad was (and is) my hero in a lot of ways. But my Dad was also a source of a lot of pain and complication. I’ve spent years untangling myself from patterns that started with him. The codependency, the caretaking, the invisible contracts. The way I used to contort myself to keep the peace in my home. But at the same time, he also gave me some of my best qualities. My intuition; my big heart; my dry humour; and my ability to show up for people when it really matters. He taught me how to be tough, how to work hard, how to be an entrepreneur, and how to charm the pants of a room in under ten minutes with our shared gift of gab. 

I don't have any quick tips this Tuesday, or electric enthusiasm for today's newsletter. But I do have my commitment to being honest with my readers, and to have transparency in fact that some things are just too big to make sense of sometimes. I'm realizing that life isn't about ‘having it all together’ or knowing exactly how to process heavy things (even if it's your job). And one thing I've realized lately is that writing and podcasting has always felt like a safer way for me to untangle my feelings around things until I'm ready to process them with another person face to face. 

The sobering fact is that my Dad's life is quietly winding down while mine feels like it's just starting to really take off. And there is something so inexplicably disorienting about watching someone fade away and not being able to do anything about it. But what I can tell you for sure is that I'm fundamentally grateful he gets to see the sober version of me today. I am fundamentally grateful he hasn't had to chase me around for the past eighteen years; bailing me out of rehabs; fighting with my mother about what to do with me; or suffering through sleepless nights wondering where I am, or if I'm dead or alive.

Just for today, I'm here to share with you that I have no idea what I'm doing (or going to do) with grief this big. Historically, I've always leaned more on the anxious side and needed to talk about things on the spot; yet here I am avoiding the inevitable truth like the plague and stuffing my feelings somewhere so deep; something I never even realized I had the capacity to do. 

Am I avoiding the harder talks with my Dad and just trying to keep it light and joke around like we've always done? Yes. Do I put on a tough exterior and take him to all his appointments, tests, and emergencies like it's not even affecting me? Yes. Have I let people in to support me and talk about it, not really. 

To be honest, I'm not sure what it would look like if I was to stare this in the face with him (or anyone) right now. Its too big, too real, and my ego keeps telling me that if I really go there, I'll just fall apart; and knowing my Dad as well as I do, I know he would call me a big whimp if I allowed that to happen ;). 

My dad always told me that I was going to have a better second half of my life than the first; but the devastating thing is that I never thought I'd have to do it without him in it. It’s like life is asking me to expand and contract at the same time.

So here's to this Tuesday morning trying to get more honest about everything. And maybe starting to talk about how truly scared I am of him dying; and trying my best not to go into autopilot or workaholism to avoid my true feelings. Because one thing I've learned along the way is that even though life is messy, and grief is messy, none of it gets easier alone. 

So here's to sharing my grief; here's to my Dad for making me into the tough cookie I am today; and here's to the greatest gift he’s given me: A reason to do this work.

A reason to break the cycle of Codependency. A reason to tell a different story.

And for finding out the reason he has called me over-sensitive my whole life, which in turn, made me out to be one hell of a therapist. 

I don’t know how much time we have left. But I do know that this version of me; the one who’s not hiding in addiction or survival mode; gets to be present and of service through all of it; even when I want to numb out and run away. 

I don’t have a neat takeaway or a bow to wrap this up with. Just gratitude. 

Gratitude for the timing. Gratitude for the healing. And gratitude for the fact that I get to feel this all; sober and of service. And If you’re in a season like this yourself, where grief and growth are spiralling around you together; I see you. And I’m right here with you.

With love, care, and empowerment, 

Jess