Sometimes the thing you feared would be so emotionally painful that you could not possibly survive it happens and you are surprised to find yourself still alive and functioning. Last Sunday evening, my dad died. In theory death is something that we all go through, but there was supposed to be a little asterisk of exception regarding my parents. I’m not sure who didn’t get that memo, but I would like to speak with the management. It doesn’t seem real, and yet it is also the thing I think about all the time. I alternate crying hard, crying lightly, leaking tears, feeling peaceful, feeling happy, functioning well, and feeling like this cannot possibly be true.
Sarah talks about him all the time, but that is how she was before he died too. As with so many of her loves, it can be hard to know whether she is pretending to be Granddad, pretending that I am Granddad, or that she is just talking to him. I brought home her favorite t-shirts of his and she has been wearing one of them as a nightgown. One night she fell asleep with her special Granddad and Sarah photobook open on the pillow next to her. Sarah, Amy, and Carl continue to give me hugs and tissues, supporting me through my tears and grief. I know they have their own grief too, but I don’t think hiding my own will help anyone so I’m letting it ebb and flow as it happens.
I can go from feeling happy and like all is well to being a heap of tears quite quickly, often with a thought about my dad when I wasn’t expecting it. When I arrived home on Wednesday, I sent a message to my mom that I arrived safely. Then I sent a message to my stepmom, brother, and uncle to tell them the same thing. It was the realization that I couldn’t tell my dad I arrived safely that undid me.
My dad was an incredible human being and he will be deeply missed. When I was little he made a castle out of a refrigerator box and put it on top of my small slide so I could climb the short ladder into the castle and slide down. He used to make expansive dioramas with castles or battlefields or both. He used colored sawdust for these projects and when I was in love with all things Peter Pan, he gave me a can of colored sawdust to use as pixie dust. He was a third-grade teacher, teaching around a different theme each fall. For each new theme he would build something elaborate with his students, such as a working water wheel, so that the students learned how to work with tools and use math for a real purpose. For other math lessons, he knew that people learn best when they are relaxed and laughing, so he wrote word problems about old bananas and used chewing gum.
In addition to teaching in a classroom, he was a History Teller, telling stories that might have been told in various eras or about certain time periods. For each character that he portrayed, he was in full-costume and had a trunk of period props. The costumes were high quality, often with many components that he made himself. When I was maybe five, we made chainmail armor. It was a true collaboration. He started with the spools of thick metal wire, unwound them enough to wind around a small dowel to form rings, snipped the rings, opened the rings to interlock with each other, closed the rings, and figured out the entire sizing and shape of it. I held a small yellow plastic bowl with the rings. You can see my role was crucial. I jest, and yet what strikes me is that he figured out how to include me, forming an important memory that will stay with me forever. When I got older, I helped with some of his storytelling gigs. He outfitted me with my own full colonial garb, taught me his stories, and had me play some of the parts. We sang duets. Eventually I branched out briefly on my own, mostly telling his stories, but even finding some of my own from his collection of folklore.
When I was in high school he helped me with writing, explaining how to reread a poem or book passages or my own writing repeatedly until I really felt like I understood what was going on and what I wanted to say. He coached me with my acting, especially when I was Helena in A Midsummer Night’s Dream. He also had space to listen to my tears without trying to fix the situation, but letting me have my feelings. I remember thinking I wanted to play field hockey in ninth grade because I had enjoyed playing in middle school. But high school was an entirely different ball game. Ahem. We started before the school year began. The drills were intense, and I was overwhelmed and miserable. As I cried in the car after practice one day, he told me it would be ok if I needed to cry every day after practice if I still wanted to stick with being on the team or that I could quit and that either option would be ok. I decided field hockey wasn’t for me, which is what led me to participate in the school plays, which led me to form a theater group at Swarthmore with my college besties. That field hockey fork in the road shaped me, but he let me make my own choice about it, supporting me no matter what.
Of course my list of memories could go on and on. He helped my world feel safe and magical. He helped me go for my dreams and be the best version of myself that I could be. He taught me to speak in a Donald Duck voice, although you might not understand me particularly well! I will forever feel blessed that I had him as my dad, and the world is definitely a better place because he existed. If you would like to read more about this phenomenal human being, you can read his obituary, although whenever I look at it I marvel that such a document exists, because Jack Briggs can’t possibly be gone so why do we have this weird thing suggesting that he is?
May you have someone who gives you space for all of your feelings and believes in you whatever path you take.
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