Fall-ing into Grief (Personal Essay)

I have a love/hate relationship with Autumn.

It is a crisp late summer morning at the Jersey Shore, and I can feel autumn beginning to wrap its arms around me. I love the changing colors of leaves, Halloween, and the brisk weather leading us into the cozy but hectic holiday season. I also dread it.

My father passed away suddenly on October 20, 2002, and my mother succumbed to a long illness on December 14, 2008. Her memorial service was on December 21^st of that same year. I wish I could tell you that the chilly season makes me feel warm and fuzzy inside, but most of the time, I am wrapped in grief, remembering how unmoored it felt to lose each of my parents. Some people dislike Halloween, but I love it because it’s the only “holiday” that doesn’t require a gathering where the absence of my parents is acutely felt. It is a day when you can be whatever you want: a witch, an astronaut, a vampire, and someone who perhaps isn’t dealing with a gigantic hole in their heart. Plus, the candy is pretty good.

Grief changes you. It creates an awareness of your immortality while you try to live. Sometimes, it makes you want to scream, “Don’t you know what I’ve been through?!?” to people who ask too much of you while your heart breaks. When you are alone, grief is the familiar friend who comes for an uninvited visit while you’re busy doing other things. It invades moments when you are perfectly fine (note: you’re not), and though you politely ask it to leave, it stays because it wants you to remember how great your dad was at painting faces on pumpkins and what a delicious meal your mom cooked every Christmas Eve.

When October begins, my heart instantly feels heavier. When they say the body keeps the score, they aren’t kidding. Some people understand this type of grief; others haven’t gone through it yet. How lucky they are. How impatient they are with those of us who struggle. My wish is for them to understand the grace they will need someday.

Growing up, my greatest fear was losing my parents. They were older than many of my peers’ parents. When I was little, my parents took me to the mall for a photo with Santa. One of the elves commented, “Are you having fun with grandma and grandpa?” The indignant kid I was, I replied, “Those are MY PARENTS.” Take that, elf. I tried to sleep over at a friend’s house now and then, but I’d become so anxious that something terrible would happen to my parents that I often called them to come pick me up. My parents attended a Christmas holiday party, and I slept at my aunt’s house. She woke me up to tell me there had been an accident—my parents’ car had veered off the road and into a swamp. She assured me they were okay, but I was inconsolable. From that point on, the anxiety about losing my parents intruded on my thoughts. I never told anyone.

After I got married, I drifted away from my parents. I now realize it was a defense mechanism. If I had become distant, maybe it wouldn’t hurt so much when I lost them. I was wrong. I regret the time I missed with them: the holidays I skipped, the birthdays I should have shown up for, and the simple phone calls I should have made. I could have, I should have, and I wish I did.

Parents aren’t always the easiest to manage. Mine were far from perfect, but they gave me a good life, taught me my work ethic, encouraged me to keep going when I wanted to quit, and, most importantly, taught me how to love my children.

This fall, I want to feel less pain, and I am working on how to manage that. A little hot yoga, a lot of therapy, and maybe a pumpkin-spiced latte while staring at the ocean.