Dances with Grief
A love letter to my father
June 30. One year ago today, Jeffrey Jay Hess made his peaceful, unannounced, and unceremonious departure from this world. On this day, in particular, Jeffrey would want all of us to be free from sorrow, self-doubt, fear of death, fear of uncertainty — fear of everything and anything. And so I write to him, through all of you.
Since I received “the call” at 1:30 pm, in the midst of an average workday in my extraordinarily ordinary office, I’ve never been the same. Miraculously, I’m better for it.
My Dearest Dad,
One year. 12 months. 52 weeks. 365 days. Somehow, I’ve fallen asleep 365 times without a “Goodnight, lovies!” text from you.
I need to pause here for a moment.
I’ve done the impossible three hundred and sixty five times. And that’s just one seemingly insurmountable task faced by someone who is learning to grieve. The lesson? There is no such thing as impossible.
I don’t know if you could sense it with your magical “Dad powers,” but when I was very young — far too young to understand the implications of death — I would cry myself to sleep at night, dreading the day when I’d lose you. At the age of 33, I can still remember feeling my warm tears on my pillow, trying to stifle the noise of a little girl desperate to never have to say goodbye to her father. It’s as if I knew that I would face unimaginable loss relatively early in life — as though we had made some sort of divine pact before taking on the world together. You had so much to teach me, and countless others, but you didn’t have much time, and I felt it in my newly inhabited bones.
I continued to subtly perceive the brevity of life for years to come. The last time I hugged you — in May 2015 — I squeezed you so tightly and drew an impossibly deep breath, as if whatever I inhaled of you in that one moment was all that I could take with me. I remember the way you smelled and how I slowly lowered my eyelids as I savored the moment.
I backed out of your driveway that deceptively unremarkable May afternoon with tears rolling down my cheeks — not uncommon when I left you after a few days together — but this time was different. Instantly, I was transported to 1980-something, lying face down on my twin bed’s My Little Pony sheets, feeling our pact in the all-knowing part of my soul. I was afraid. I had no definitive knowledge of what was to come just six weeks later, but my deep intuition let me know that I had just hugged you for the last time.
On June 30, 2015, my deepest fear, the one that followed me like a dark shadow through my 32 years, 3 months, and 7 days of life, became my new reality. But, to my surprise, this was a reality that I would learn to endure— one that would foster unprecedented growth. One year later, I look back on that day with great sadness, but I also view it as a pivotal snapshot in time that has ultimately made me far more appreciative of life. I really, truly feel alive. The first uncontrived thought that passed through my mind the precise moment I learned you had died was, “He’s taught you everything you need to know” — yet you hadn’t even begun your work as my teacher.
There is simply no adequate way to explicate my sense of profound connection to you, not in a clean and convenient way that science can defend anyway. But what I can say, without need for “proof,” is that you are with me. I don’t think it — I know it. I feel you all around me. I’m never alone. It’s incredibly difficult to understand, and even harder to explain, but the farther we drift apart, physically, the closer we become, spiritually. Without question, it has been an emotionally and intellectually challenging transition from one manifestation of togetherness to the other, but it’s a beautiful way of living and perceiving the world in the moments when I summon the courage to believe.
I know you can’t protect me from future pain, and I know you won’t send me the winning lottery ticket (but by all means, try!). My life will be touched by more death, heartache, and despair. But through it all, you’ll always be with me. Together, we are stronger than any and all pain; you’ve already proven that you can guide me beyond the most harrowing agony imaginable. How else could I explain the fact that I’ve been able to pull myself out of bed three hundred and sixty five times since the last time the sun rose before July? No one can explain away my feelings of deep inner peace and profound connection.
So, what’s changed? Everything — and nothing. It’s been a year of striking paradoxes: the gravitational pull of grief and the inconceivable gift of spirituality, partnered with the familiar and the mundane. I still wake up every morning and brush my teeth, drive my car, go to work, smile and laugh. (I laugh a lot, actually.) How does my body even remember how to laugh? I find myself pondering that very question — not because I feel guilty for enjoying life, but because I once found it implausible that I would be capable of conjuring any emotion other than anguish in the face of such a grave loss. Against all odds, the past year has been marked by optimism, gratitude, happiness, love, grace and deep inner peace. It’s amazing how much we underestimate our ability to handle life’s most difficult circumstances.
What’s next for Us? Perhaps I’ll get married (stay tuned). No, you won’t be there to walk me down the aisle, but I’ll still feel you on my tingling arm and in my overflowing heart. And I’m definitely going to become Dr. Hess! That is our dream and I will see it through. Would I give anything to have you physically by my side for all of those moments and thousands more? Of course. But those aren’t the cards we were dealt. That’s not part of our plan. And do you know what the craziest thing is? I trust the plan. Aside from tangible text messages, I’d argue that everything else is still on the table. We’re not apart. You aren’t missing out on my life. You’re shaping it. You’re making life real and gritty and a thousand layers deep. You’ve helped me find and fight for gratitude in the most unlikely of places. Remember how you always told me that I needed to grow a thicker skin? Well, Dad, my skin is really f****** thick!
What have I learned? I’ve learned that our lives can change immeasurably, overnight. I’ve learned that I am stronger than I ever imagined. I’ve learned that resilience is innate, but you have to fight relentlessly and through exhaustion to keep it alive. I’ve learned that you have to choose and prioritize happiness. I’ve learned that you must also embrace grief. I’ve learned that while the pain of grief is heartbreaking, it is also absurdly normal; without exception, everyone experiences it to one degree or another. And maybe that’s the greatest lesson I’ve learned — that we are really all the same in the end. My pain may be different from another’s, but pain is pain and grief is grief and love is love. The difference lies in what we do with that pain and that grief — and, most importantly, with that love.
I promise, Dad, that I’ll live the next 365 days as best I can — some will be full of hope; as I lay my head on the pillow, I’ll gasp at the almost startling realization that I didn’t shed a single tear. Other days will be darker, salt rubbed mercilessly into an impossibly deep, open wound. Regardless, I’m going to show up for each and every one of those days because I have a purpose here. I don’t yet know exactly what that purpose is, but I know that what I can offer the world is inseparable from my love for you. Our story has just begun. You’ve given me more in death than you could in life, and you had given me the world, so you can imagine my pleasant disbelief.
I don’t have to worry about you anymore — your stress at work, your health, your finances, you worrying about me, Mom, or Mel. None of it matters anymore. It almost feels foolish to worry so much about things that become irrelevant overnight. But please don’t mistake my words; I’d re-absorb all of that stress in an instant to wrap my arms around you — but I can’t. So I choose to embrace the beauty that comes with moving on from this world of anxiety and fear. You are free, and I taste more and more of the power of that freedom every day that you guide me towards it.
I didn’t know what I was “supposed to do” to mark this day — this “anniversary.” My therapist suggested that I go somewhere I love, where I’d feel closest to you. I’ve done just that. I’ve come to my favorite beach in Gloucester to spend the day with you. Because you’re here. You’re in the water and the sand, the sun, the clouds. You’re singing with me at the top of your lungs on the drive to and from the beach, windows down, your ashes in my passenger seat, peacefully awaiting their return to the sea. You’re with me when I sob into my towel, thanking God for the anonymity afforded by my sunglasses. In my mind I will hear you say — as you’ve said in life — “Your heavy heart is in my loving hands.” I will place my heart in your hands and I will feel loved and cared for. I won’t hesitate.
Dad, from this day forward, June 30 will always represent you, the love and the many gifts you’ve given to the world. But today is also about Us; it’s about shedding our skin — you, literally, and me, figuratively. Thank you for sharing your newfound freedom with me.
Here’s to another year together (raise a glass!), whichever “side” we’re on (I hear yours is better, but I don’t plan to join you there anytime soon). As much as I miss you and look forward to “seeing” you again, I’m in no rush to leave this crazy little planet. You and me — we have a lot of work to do down here, spreading love like it’s a crazy, mad disease. Let’s get it done, together.
I love you so much — my Dad, my Jeffrey, my angel, my guide, my reasons, my heart.
“His gentle means of sculpting souls took me years to understand…
The leader of the band is tired and his eyes are growing old,
But his blood runs through my instrument and his song is in my soul.
My life has been a poor attempt to imitate the man,
I’m just a living legacy to leader of the band…
I am a living legacy to the leader of the band.”
- Dan Fogelberg, Leader of the Band
