The Trifecta of Grief

Grief and loss are a universal part of the human experience. Multiple encounters with grief in immediate succession yield an amplified level of pain that has the power to deconstruct your spirit and make you dangerously question your will to be. You’re held hostage to mental, emotional, and physical exhaustion as you struggle to excavate your soul from the grips of heartbreak and pain. 

In the span of three months, I underwent three unexpected, significant losses as well as major surgery that dramatically altered my body. The surgery was welcomed and had been planned for quite some time; however, the physical and psychological toll had an unexpected effect that compounded my mental and emotional state.

When the third loss came, I felt as if my life’s breath had been knocked out of me for good. I found myself at the cross-section of wanting to close my eyes and never open them again or facing the pain head-on and learning to breathe with my own breath again.

The first blow came when I was informed my biological father was gravely ill. I received the message early on a Sunday morning. My father was living in Florida, and every part of me wanted to get to Florida to see him before he passed. I had a very fractured and complex relationship with my father, but my heart quietly hurt knowing I would soon be in a world without his presence. I had hoped that perhaps in his final moments of life, we might find peace and healing in our complicated relationship.

Out of what I believe was for my emotional and psychological protection, I was strongly advised not to come to his bedside. This was largely due to his current near-death state and appearance. I was told that this was not the way I would want to remember him, nor did he want me to see him in his diminishing condition.

Throughout the day, I jumped at every text message and phone call, fearful of the inevitable. My thoughts were filled with wondering whether my father was taking his proverbial last breaths: Did he know he was dying or was he too unconscious to know what was happening? I hoped he’d perhaps make a miraculous turnaround as he had done many times before. Unfortunately, this was not to be. My father passed away peacefully at 7:14 p.m. And just like that, the man I had so earnestly desired and chased for 40 years to have a relationship with was gone. Gone from this life. Gone from my life.

My last correspondence with my father was a year prior. I had poured my weary and wounded heart out and pleaded for an authentic father–daughter relationship. I had reached a point of too many failed expectations, hurts, and struggles with having a surface-level relationship. The letter cut his heart, but it was necessary for my healing to take place. He wrote me a few weeks later hoping we could get to a more sustainable father–daughter relationship, but it never came to fruition.

My father died knowing his daughter earnestly wanted to have her dad in her life — truly in her life. He died without us having an opportunity to right the wrongs. He died without me being able to tell him I forgave him and still loved him deeply despite our complicated story. My father died and a part of me died with him.

A celebration of life was held a few weeks after my father’s passing. Due to COVID-19 and the major surgery I was having two days later, I was unable to attend. This left me feeling a continued estrangement and lack of closure and compounded my grief. In essence, the blow had been doubly struck, but, as always, I found my way to the ropes and pulled myself up to get ready for the next round.
The second wave of grief came when my beloved cat of 17 years, Chloe, took ill. Over the course of a couple of weeks, she had become rail thin. Her spirits were surprisingly high, but she started to look old and tired. She consumed her food and treats voraciously, yet her weight continued to decline. The vet gently informed me she was most likely in her last few weeks of life and would soon cross over the rainbow bridge. Chloe lasted longer than my marriage.

Living with a cat is like living with a supermodel. Thankfully, Chloe was a far cry from the typical cat persona. She was sweet and adorably affectionate. Chloe was always curled up with me, my houseguests, or my dog, Jackson and showered us with warm kitty kisses and tender headbutts. She traveled across the country with me when I moved from California to the Carolinas and was my consummate funny, furry companion. She was always within a few inches of me when I worked from home, perched on the couch when I’d relax, or underfoot at the most inopportune times. She had a pink metal heart on her collar that jingled when she walked about the house or clanked against her dish when she ate — a gentle reminder of her sweet presence.

Following the vet’s original diagnosis, Chloe made an unexpected and welcomed turn for the better. I thought she might be using one of her nine proverbial lives. Her turnaround lasted a mere three days before she became weak and frail again. Then, one evening, around 11:30 p.m., I let Jackson out into the backyard for his final doggy break before bed. Chloe ran past me and out the door. Normally, she didn’t try to venture outside, so I slowly and gingerly walked behind her to grab or coax her back into the house. Anyone who’s owned a cat knows you can’t chase them. She briskly walked across the yard and through our wrought-iron fence. My heart dropped. I felt completely helpless. I couldn’t chase her even if I wanted to. It was pitch black, and she was venturing deeper into the wooded area beside our house. Chloe stopped, looked back, gave me a final gentle meow, and walked into the dark of the night. I was heartbroken. Devastated. My vet prepared me that she might hide under a bed or in a closet when the time came. It’s part of a cat’s primal nature to find a quiet place to pass. Chloe chose how and where she wanted to die, and, as painful as that was to accept, I had to respect it.

I stood at the fence and cried to her. “Chloe. No. No. Please, no. Not like this. Please, please not like this.” I got up every hour and rushed to the patio hoping she’d come back. I checked outside for several days, hoping to see her sitting on the doorstep, ready to sashay back in the house like nothing happened. After a week, I had to accept she was truly gone. I could hear the echo of her jingling collar for several weeks. I went through the painful task of removing her bed, toys, food dishes, and scratching post. I had suffered yet another loss without closure. The silence of her meows and sweet purrs looms as a painful reminder of her passing. After 17 years of being a family, Jackson and I were now void of a precious member. I felt as if a part of me had been severed.

The third blow came when the man I had been dating for six months chose to abruptly end our relationship. And he did so over— wait for it — email. Yes, an email he sent at 2:29 a.m. An email I didn’t open until I was walking into the office that morning. Arriving at work on a Monday, in tears and shocked, while co-workers were wondering what happened was gut-wrenching. It took me two days to respond to him. We agreed to meet the following Sunday to talk only to have him send another email at 11 p.m. the night before informing me he didn’t have it in him to meet.

The first email announcing the breakup felt like a knife in my heart. The second email plunged it deeper, twisting it, recklessly ignoring the intensity of the wound he’d just inflicted. It felt visceral and cruel. This blow came hard and swift, and, like the death of my father, it had multiple jabs and left me gasping.

We went from intense intimacy on multiple levels to him immediately posturing himself with intentionally limited communication and connection on top of his reluctance to meet face-to-face. He took this lethal shot at me and then just ran and hid leaving me to bleed out. I told him it felt like a death. To be so deeply connected to someone and then instantly — nothing. Refusing to provide me space to have positive closure only furthered the wounds and amplified the hurt and grief. I didn’t just have to grieve the loss of him and our relationship; I had to grieve the loss of his children, grandchildren, family, and friends he’d brought into my world. The loss was on a more profound level than I believe he was willing to acknowledge or had considered.

From our first hello until that fateful email, our relationship was pure magic. We traveled, had amazing experiences, set intentions, got lost in the deepest conversations, challenged and inspired each other, laughed hard together, and always — ALWAYS — had a wonderful time. He tenderly and meticulously cared for me after my surgery. There was this lovely equilibrium and rhythm to our relationship. He was the first man since my divorce (18 years ago) that I finally felt safe with and gave access to a part of my heart. He provided a space for me in his life that most men I’ve dated didn’t have capacity or the know-how to do because of their fear of commitment or outright brokenness. I must have whispered a million thank-you prayers for finally finding someone I connected so beautifully with — until the day we didn’t. Then, I found myself angry with God and the universe for teasing me with such a fulfilling and meaningful relationship only to savagely rip it away from me. And yet, despite the painful outcome, he was, and will always be, very special to me because our relationship revealed my ability to step into the scary emotional spaces and open my heart again. My soul now holds a tender hope for when the right man and opportunity to love and be loved again comes along. 

As an ironic and albeit humorous side note, two days after the breakup I received a note from my gynecologist informing me that he was moving to a different type of practice. Due to this change, he would no longer be my doctor. I found humor in realizing that the two men who had known me most intimately in the past six months had both left me in the same week. But I digress. 

In all three circumstances, I wasn’t given the opportunity for closure. I found myself constantly bouncing between grief and anger. Due to the nature of the losses, the grief is understandable; however, anger is not a playground I spend much time on. I found myself deeply frustrated by how much time I was being held hostage in this miserable, ugly space. My father and Chloe are gone and can’t provide me space for closure, and the one person in this trifecta of grief who can is treating me as if I, too, have passed from this life.

I had to have an honest conversation with myself about what I was experiencing. I had to stop distracting myself and running from the pain. I had to sit in the discomfort and messy of it, acknowledge its presence, and muster the guts to confront the ugly beast that is grief head-on. I purposed myself to process the emotions as they came. And came they did. I’ve cried more in the past few months than I have in the past several years. I haven't just cried; I've wept. I've wailed. I’ve screamed. The pain has come from a place that is deep and feels tentacled to every part of my soul. It's primal. Raw. Exhausting. Necessary.

The road to healing has been extremely challenging. However, it’s a road lined with the most beautiful friends and family cheering me on. A road many of them have traveled, and now they serve as my compass through the difficult and blistering steps. They have shown up large and consistently with relentless love and strength. They have been my refuge and have fiercely wrapped their arms and love around me with no intention of letting go.

I’ve learned to acknowledge the gift that grief is, even with its prickly, cutting, and painful sides. The pain means I was able to hold space in my heart to care and love. By embracing and exuding gratitude for the grief, I’m finding my way to an emotionally and mentally healthier me. I’m learning to breathe without heaviness in my heart and finding joy in the most extraordinary places. 

Acknowledging my grief and giving the darkness permission to cover me when the sun had been so absent has provided a path for the light to find its way back to me.

©2022 LoriAnn Boyer - All Rights Reserved
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