My dad died.

Unexpectedly. Almost three weeks ago. Not even three weeks ago.

There’s been crying, cursing and yelling. There’s been tequila in my underwear on the couch and comments about people I would trade for my dad. I have been fine; I am good in a crisis, I am a professional. But maybe not for myself. There is a constant underlying swirl of feelings, so many mixed, odd feelings. They are not on the surface, but they are there. Buzzing in my chest .. fluttering in my belly.

I’m waiting for the explosion. I’m waiting to lose my shit on some unsuspecting person, to cry so hard for so long that I don’t think I will be able to recover from it, to fall to my knees in a Target when my distracted brain zaps me with the memory that my dad is dead and not just 1000 miles away at his place. I don’t want it to happen, but also, why hasn’t it happened? Why am I not limp and one with my bed; how am I waking up and putting clothes on (barely showering, sure), I made a pot of soup, I bought paper towels and went to the post office. It’s just a deep churning feeling, like anxiety in high gear, but no release. Just the low whirring of emotions within me.

I couldn’t stop thinking about it, I took a class on grief and loss, what do I remember, what can I recall … maybe I am doing grieving wrong…

Or maybe my grief is a sound machine like I keep in my office. A low hum that protects me. A quiet flutter that keeps the world from distracting me from my memories with my dad, blocks out their voices so I can remember his, keeps me calm in my sadness. Maybe it’s the soft noise that protects me from the sadness when I have to function, when I need to put one foot in front of the other and carry on. Maybe there is no explosion coming, maybe it’s just me and a soothing vibration that keeps me even – let’s me be sad if I need to, but reminds me to live.

My dad died and my grief is a sound machine.