Denial. Anger. Bargaining. Depression. Acceptance.
These are the five stages of grief. Most people have heard of them. Many more have experienced them. Those that have experienced them may have done so in quick succession while others may take a bit longer to get through each stage. And, most definitely, the path two people take through them is never the same. But there is one stage of grief I’ve learned about that isn’t part of this typical answer to handling grief.
Forgetting.
My father was killed when I was 8.5 months pregnant with my first child. It was horribly tragic. A story you only see on the news, thinking it would never happen to your family. Only it was our family. We were the ones on the news. I got through that month between his funeral and the birth of my daughter in a haze. After she was born, I went to visit a grief counselor. I had a lot of feelings and I also didn’t feel a lot of things, and I wasn’t entirely sure what was right or wrong. She explained the five stages to me. It helped. Knowing there was no right or wrong way to handling the pain. It helped me, too, with understanding how some of my relatives were handling the situation. We were all in different stages of grief.
It’s been eight years now. I miss him like crazy. I do feel like I’ve gone through all five stages. But recently, I’ve struggled with this stage I didn’t expect. I’m forgetting him.
I can’t always remember the way he smelled when I hugged him after not seeing him for a few weeks.
I can’t always remember the way his voice sounded when he was excitedly telling me about his latest vacation.
I can’t always remember what his favorite color was or which hat was his favorite.
I can’t always remember what his face looked like when he was concentrating on the football game when his favorite team was playing. I do remember it was the Browns, though.
I do remember Budweiser was his favorite beer brand. I do remember Nascar was a passion of his. I do remember he loved camping and frying turkeys for Thanksgiving. I do remember he made the best ham.
And I still very clearly remember Friday nights, in his living room, his 80’s sound system blaring, him in his jeans and his pretend fiddle, singing The Devil Went Down to Georgia. I can hear his voice. I can see his smile. And when that song comes on, I’m right back in that room with him. Remembering it all.
I haven’t forgotten everything. I won’t. But it’s getting harder. I’ve learned though, to appreciate the memories as they come. Relish them. Remember them.
