Stevie Szabad, Author

I’m 67 years old and am now an orphan. I guess. My father recently joined my mother this year in their family plot, in the small prairie town where they both grew up, married, then left for their lifetimes as a military family. In retirement, after four children cast off along the way, they circled back to the prairies where my mother would leave her family much too early. Such is sudden, cancer-caused, horrible, gut-punching grief.

Of course grief is a part of life. It lives with us, the living, always ready, always around. Anything loved can incite grief with its loss. Children will absorb grief by reflection as grandparents leave. We may learn it first with beloved pets. We see it in others, we commiserate.

Grief, ever-present, yet always different and personal.

My father’s passing is felt as quiet pain. He didn’t suffer, he’d lived a full, long, mostly healthy life. Smoker, drinker, athlete; the usual ailments from his 60s on. Bad knees. A vascular-type surgery. Dementia at the last. A favourite quote: “Getting old isn’t for sissies.” At least he got old.

I had a little episode with an acquaintance the other day that brought some discussion of my father, which brought some tears. A kleenex offered, with well-intentioned advice meant to help with my grief. “Write him a letter”, she suggested. As if. What would I say that I didn’t already live with the last few care-giving years?

 I don’t need “help” with my grief. It’s mine to suffer and accept. To acknowledge and live with, to fade. Until it rears again the next time. Until it’s my own turn to cause it, to pass along. Grief truly is a human condition, and as long as we are human, we will have grief.