Quiet Grief
My dad died. The waiting was the worst because as a terminal addict he didn't qualify for the care or medical oversight that terminally ill people do. I get it---an addict beyond help needs their vice and medical professionals took an oath to do no harm.
But it was torture to wait.
For years.
There's relief from the anxiety of never knowing what would happen next. He died in his sleep and that's a small silver lining since I expected a much less peaceful ending.
But I didn't expect the after to feel so quiet. I ramble if I try to describe how I feel to someone else because there's no analogy that fits. The switch from being on high alert for so long to the come down of it all is unsettling. It's permanent, heartbreaking, and fractured. I'm caught between the grief as his child and the grief of an adult child. I both understand the nuance of him while wanting my dad back.
I look for him everywhere. I miss his drunk texts that let me know he thought of me at his lowest and I struggle to look in a mirror since I have his eyes.
It's so lonely and so quiet. I'm heartbroken for him, for me, and trying to reconcile with the tragic ending without redemption.