Grief

The sudden loss of my father didn't affect me quite the way I expected it to. The pain - yes, that was there, manifesting in the main as a tightness like an iron band around my chest, so that at times breathing felt arduous and moving a struggle. First thing in the morning I found myself lying in bed feeling not sad, exactly, but sort of blank, and it was an effort to tip myself out of the sheets and get on with the day.

Momentum carried me through the tasks of sorting out Dad's estate and arranging the funeral. Dad was a well-known author and a popular man who had enjoyed female company throughout his life, so I found myself receiving messages from journalists, ex-partners and step-siblings I'd never known, which in its own way was a blessing, as I got to reminisce endlessly with people who had known him in a different context than I had.

I had expected to feel like I was breaking inside, but instead it felt more like a forging, a hardening. I refused to cry in front of people - an abrupt departure from being the girl who has sobbed through everybody's wedding for the last decade - and I found myself standing taller, as if the backbone I was suddenly growing was literal as well as metaphorical. I felt as though my skin had become a suit of armour, protecting a fiery core as internally I raged at the injustice of his sudden departure, and determined to do him proud. He may have been as flawed as the rest of us, no saint, occasionally driving me crazy, but he was my dad, my son's grandfather, and very much loved.

Sitting on a tired blue hospital sofa beside my uncle as consultants and nurses gave us awful news and talked us through consent forms for organ donation was the first time I had ever really felt like an adult, and not like a teenager pretending. This feeling continued in the aftermath of that brutal day in the relatives' room, as I shed my people-pleasing skin and learned where my boundaries were. Words like, "That is my decision, thank you," and, "What I need from you is..." suddenly began coming out of my mouth. 

I wanted to do the best I could for my dad. In the absence of a will I had to guess at his wishes, but I knew what I felt would be appropriate, and I clung to that even when well-meaning friends and family offered different advice. I was also determined to speak at the funeral myself, even though I once had a panic attack reading a short story to four people at a writer's group and we were expecting a minimum of forty people to attend the memorial service.

I bought a new dress, too, mindful of my dad's appreciation of aesthetics and pride in being well-dressed. I knew he had always thought I could be more elegant, more sophisticated, more feminine, but that wasn't really me, although I scrub up all right when needed. I'm too plus-size for many sustainable brands and couldn't find quite what I wanted second-hand in the time frame I had available, so eventually I bought a black and white patterned wrap dress from a high street brand's 'eco' range, made from a fabric made out of wood pulp. I wanted to represent the family well to all those attending the memorial, but I also wanted to be true to myself, and in the end I felt I struck the right balance.

Families are complicated and ours in some ways particularly so, and at times I became stressed about feuds, finances, and other things which were out of my control. But one night I got a clear message that Dad, at least, knew I was doing my best - I was settling down to try to get some sleep when I felt, plain and solid as anything, his hand upon my shoulder. It jolted me awake, but the feeling remained, and I was grateful to him for letting me know that he was there.