AMBIGUOUS GRIEF

Upon arriving to my sister’s home for the holidays, I went into her kitchen to greet and hug her. My sister Jess said to me, “we have to call dad and let him know you got here safely.” She starts crying, I start crying. Those automatic responses kick in so easily at times and then we remember, our father passed away. I understand that this is how it plays out. Grief. Whenever we traveled, we were ingrained to place that phone call. I miss making that phone call with my sister. I miss my dad’s voice and miss hearing the sound of his relief knowing I was safe. These fragile grief-filled moments of memory take my breath away. The particular actions like calling my dad after my travels halted with his passing. They remained stationary, frozen in time. I call this ambiguous grief.

I lost my parents in 2017 and have been walking the grief journey since. The part of grief I want to capture and explore is the ambiguous grief. When I say ambiguous, I mean the conceptual pieces that cannot be named or placed in a tangible form. Ambiguous grief is the loss of what could be. The parts of our time with our loved ones that won’t get fulfilled-the dreams that had to die with them. All the moments of connection that will be mourned and won’t come to pass: the goodnight hugs that won’t come, the Christmas phone calls that stop, the late-night discussions, sharing popcorn at a movie, Mother’s and Father’s Day calls. I mourn every single moment that we won’t get to share. I had my parents for 44 years. I am lucky and blessed. But, boy do I ache for their presence in certain moments where they are the first people I want to see and talk to. In those moments, I just breathe and surrender with gratitude for what they gave me.