St. Patrick's Day, Grief and The Babadook

What I have learned about life, death and grief almost 7 years since my Dad's passing.

This August will be seven years since my dad’s passing. There is a part of me that truly cannot believe it has been that long since I have seen his face - and there is another part of me feels like it was many, may lifetimes ago when we said our final goodbye. Depending on what day and hour you ask me, I will have completely different sentiments upon reflection.

That is the thing about grief they don't tell you, it is a shapeshifter and a trickster - just when you think you have a handle on it and finally have it tamed on a leash, it rears it’s ugly head back at you to show you who truly is ultimately in charge.

There was a time in my life when I was so overcome with grief and trauma from the intensity of the experience of losing my Dad, I literally could not fathom a future where I was someday, somehow okay. The intensity of the experience of being a caregiver, along with my mother and siblings to my father as he went through his end of life process while battling stage four glioblastoma brain cancer has left permanent scars all over my heart and soul that have since healed but never truly disappear. Glioblastoma is one of the deadliest and most aggressive cancers known to doctors with the median survival timeline being 12-18 months. The crass nickname I later learned for glioblastoma is “goodbye motherfucker” because of how horrible a diagnosis it is.

Glioblastoma is true, unadulterated, pure evil. I wouldn’t wish it on my worst enemy.

If you are also a member of the club no one ever wants to become a member of as someone who has taken care of someone as they were dying, or lost someone you loved dearly, or just lost a parent at all, you are familiar with all of this. You know the sharpness of the pain and the claustrophobia of the overwhelming waves of grief that consume your life.

For me, there are still days, songs and things that are triggers - and then, there are other things you would assume would make you cry but don't at all. Like I said, grief is an unpredictable beast.

My Dad was released from the Vietnamese prison, the Hanoi Hilton after five and a half years of torture and confinement on March 14th and made it home, landing in Florida, welcomed back home into the arms of freedom on American soil on St. Patrick's Day, 1973. Other than being partially Irish myself, St. Patrick's Day holds a lot of symbolism to me in my life. We named our second daughter Clover for a few reasons but one of them was my Dad's love of the plant and belief in its luck. He used to tell a story about how he always knew he wanted to go on adventures and live a great life when he found a four leaf clover while reading King Arthur and the Knights of the Round Table in a field by his house. He put the clover in the book to save and kept it with him through adulthood. Like I said he always loved clovers, all symbols of good luck and was extremely superstitious. I would even go so far as to say he was obsessed with luck and not tempting fate. I am sure the memory of nearly escaping death and it coming on St. Patrick's Day added to that folklore. He also always used to tell me that you have to take risks and roll the dice in life - but still keep your luck around.

St. Patrick's Day is one of the days that makes my heart hurt and always makes the familiar striking pang of grief come back into my chest. There are some days you learn as years go by that will be harder than others.