On Losing My Stepdad in February

Grief is a funny thing. One minute you are fine. The next, you are walking room to room in your empty childhood home, sobbing. Not just sobbing. Silent tears streaming down your cheeks. Loud wails that come out of your without your permission in a way that you think you might split in two. Your nose is running and you wipe it on your sleeve because no one is around to judge you.

Grief is a funny thing. One minute you are fine. The next, you are begging the universe to send your loved one back to earth. Just one more day, you beg. One more hug. One more meal. One more laugh. Just one more. I wasn’t ready, you say. I’m not okay.

Grief is a funny thing. One minute you are fine. The next, your mind flashes back to a time when you were a child and safe and the person was there, no death looming. Your childhood self can’t even understand death. You think life will go on forever. And yet you are in your adult body experiencing the effects of death, suddenly aware of your own mortality and the finality that is sure to come.

Grief is a funny thing. One minute you are fine. The next, you see a photo that reminds you of a time spent together. It makes you ask yourself, did I do enough when they were alive? Did I spend enough time with them? Did I call enough? Did I make the appropriate effort? Did I take it all for granted?

Grief is a funny thing. One minute you are fine. The next, grief sneaks up on your silently, a cat stalking its prey. It overwhelms you, overpowers you, controls you. Grief gives no warnings of when it will come or go. All it takes is a song, a picture, a place, a memory – and then it’s there, an unwelcome visitor in your body, your mind, your soul.

Grief is a funny thing. It makes minutes feel like hours and days pass without any recognition of time.

My stepdad had been in my life for thirty years, taking my sisters and me on when we were just in elementary school. He taught us to enjoy new and exotic foods, gave us our love of traveling, taught us to ski, challenged us to think deeply, laughed with us (and often at us).

He was a doctor who excelled at his practice and changed lives. He read more newspapers than I thought possible for one man to do. He was athletic. He was funny. He was so smart. And I loved him dearly, even during my teenage years when I thought he just didn’t get me. And truthfully, he didn’t.

My mother and he got a divorce about ten years ago, but he never stopped being my stepdad. We still got together for meals, and my children loved their time with their Oupa and much as I did. 

Family is not family because of blood or even because of marriage. Family is family because you decide they are, and you commit to them like they are. He was my family, and I miss him so much. 

Grief is a thing I wish on no one. I have been navigating it since February when he passed away unexpectedly. Today, on his first heavenly birthday, I feel a little more at peace than I have, and for that I’m grateful.

Until next time,

Jeri Austin

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