I am by no means a grief expert. I am by no means an anything expert.
Except for mid-50s to mid-90s rock trivia. In that scenario, I’ve practically got a PhD. Which is not as frequently helpful as you might suspect.
And even in terms of emotions, I’m okay at that. (P.J. would probably say that I’m exceptional at that. “Emotions.” As in “having them loudly.” “A lot.”) But working through them in functional ways that make linear sense? Yeah, I suck at that.
I take- slight- solace in the fact that everyone sucks at that. Because grief in particular is one of those soul-crushing, intangible things that you can’t line up in a neat row. There’s no calendar date to circle when you’ll suddenly not be grieving. And, despite my best of bookish intentions, reading every single thing ever published on grief and illness and coping does not count towards “time served.” As my therapist recently told me, you cannot pre-grieve. (And despite my hours of internet-readin’, I’m inclined to give her that point. That one point.)
You grieve. And then you grieve differently. And then it’s yet a new way to grieve. Then you repeat. And then it jumps around to the second way again. And just when you think that you’ve got a handle on it, you’re quietly devastated by a turn of phrase or scent that, really, has very little to do with anything at all, but your brain and heart have worked together to remind you how beautifully terrible (and terribly wonderful) things are at every last moment of each day.
I’m no longer surprised by this. The days where I thought I could control what my heart or brain did (never mind what they conspired to achieve as a duo) are long gone. As my family would be the first to tell you, I’m the gal who cries at soup commercials, counts on her fingers, and sprained an ankle by running backwards- numerous times. I control nothing, at least not where my corporeal being is concerned.
But here’s what else I’ve learned (which should absolutely be filed away under Things Which Are So Painfully Obvious As To Never Again Be Mentioned): Nothing short of Inception, Quantum Leap, and that one movie with Joseph Gordon-Levitt changes your memories. I can weep all I want to (and trust me, I want to) about the past and how things can never be the same again- but guess what? That has nothing to do with the memories themselves.
Even if my Dad lives to a deserved 120 years of age, we’d never again be able to revisit Cape Cod in 1993. I wouldn’t be able to time travel back to my backyard, circa 1986, and sit on the deck while my Dad barbecued chicken and explained chord progressions in Boston’s Third Stage. And try as I might, I can’t apparate to the couch and watch late-night marathons of The X-Files with my favorite viewing buddy. (Although this afternoon we powered through a downright terrible Mystery Science Theatre 3000 episode.)
But again- it doesn’t matter. I have neither more nor less power over recreating these moments now than I would had cancer never reared its horrific head. So those recollections are safe. My Dad’s current state- while temporarily making everything concerning my Dad feel maudlin- will hopefully, eventually, lose its power over the chapters of my family’s story.
And Dave Flynn will go back to being the hero of our favorite memories.
Which he never really stopped being, anyhow.
Not even cancer can steal that one.
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