Seasons of Grief

I went to get a haircut today.

My world is in a tumble w**d of grief. There is nothing I can do. So, I decided to get a haircut. I didn't need anything fancy- just, get to right below the shoulders, with angles that air dry to show some movement. I pretended to care as I described this to the nice hairdresser.

I roll in with no makeup, redness on my face from a night and morning of crying. I used to apologize for how I looked. Now, I don't. There is much more in this life that matters than how we look.

As we sit there in pleasant silence while she cuts my hair, all I can picture is my dad in a hospital bed with a feeding tube down his nose. I try to push that image away and imagine him healing, smiling.

I sit in the chair and remember the last time dad had a professional haircut was in this very salon in town, before my wedding. For most of his life, my mom has cut his hair. He doesn't ask for much, plus he's very shy- the hairdresser can be a tough place for a shy person. He delighted in mom cutting his hair, always making a joke about how she missed her calling as a hairdresser. It was a bit they had. I wonder if he will ever be to the hairdresser again. No, he won't. I wonder if he will ever have his haircut by my mom again? Maybe he will.

I sit there, remembering the time before my wedding when my dad wanted the perfect clean haircut. I wonder if he sat in this very chair.

I look around, realizing no one here knows my dad is dying. What a strange thing, to carry such grief and no one knows.

I come back to myself, smile at the hairdresser in the mirror. Remember better times- wedding prep, when dad was on dialysis but was so strong, still working full time as a scientist. He was happy. I was happy. I wonder if we will both be happy in the same place again.

I wonder if I will always look for him in places he has been. He is still on this earth, he is still here, but I look for him. I wonder how he felt in places he's been before. I reflect on how he probably felt more free. Definitely felt more well. I wonder if when he is gone, if I will continue to look for him in all of the places he has been.

Driving home, traffic is hectic. I don't care when people cut in front of me. They don't know my dad is dying.

I am close to home now, my car at a red light. The light turns green, and the woman in front of me doesn't go. I don't beep. I let her take her time. Maybe her dad is dying.

There is an interesting dynamic when the roles of parent and child are switched. When you have a parent who is sick, you have to be careful. I am sure dad would hate that I’m shielding him. Like me, he’d never want to be thought of as weak. He’s not. But, it is a courtesy.



I call him when he’s in the hospital still and he tells me he’s afraid he isn’t coming home. I say encouraging things, things I hope are comforting, things I believe but I know it’s hard for him to believe right now. I cannot, and will not, tell him I’m scared too. Selfishly, I’m scared I won’t be able to ask his advice again. Selfishly, I’m afraid I won’t be able to tell him how I truly feel, that I’m afraid. Selfishly, I’m afraid I won’t hear him tell me “it will be okay” again.



I swallow my pain, the physical and emotional. I tell him it will be okay. He sounds sad, tired, childlike on the phone. My lips quivers as I catch my breath- stop- don’t cry- I tell him of course he will come home. I speak of future things as if they exist, while my heart breaks at the images that might never be.



I miss my dad.

This blog is here to illustrate the seasons of grief one goes through when caring for a loved one with a serious illness. The goal is to support others who are currently in this season, and to give words to those who have already experienced the heartbreak of such grief.