From the end of April to mid-June, my body is a mess. Everything aches. Headaches appear out of nowhere. My shoulders need attention and there is an aching in my chest that can only be described as actual heart ache; familiar to those of us who live with grief.

April is the calendar reminder of all the lasts. In April of 2021, I had my last dinner with both of my parents.

Last night of being under one roof with my parents and siblings.

The last text message.

The last card game.

The last conversation about music.

The last time we shared a silly joke.  

The last time I heard my dad’s laughter.

The last day of my dad’s heart beating.   

The last time I saw my mom.

The physical feelings of unbearable emotions return as I re-live this time of year over again, four years later.

It’s only been four years, and it’s been four awful and long years.

Four years, 48 months, 1,400 days and countless hours and minutes that have ticked by since I uttered the phrase that would later haunt me, “I think it’s time”.

His breathing was textbook end of life; however, it was too soon, it was too fast, he was talking two days ago, none of us were ready, no one is ever truly ready.  In an effort to prove myself wrong, I turned to the internet and confirmed what I knew. My dad was actively dying.

The death rattle breathing had started. I could hear the fluid. His mouth was open a bit and he was staring off into the abyss. Becoming unrecognizable; his conscious thoughts left us a day or two before.

Four years ago, I told my mom that the love of her life was gone. The scream of denial that came from her even at the very end was enough to break the titanium armor of anyone’s heart. I think all the way until his very last exhale, she still had faith that he would improve.

On the day that my father exhaled for the last time, the pain of a long medical journey ended quietly. He did not have any dying declarations in the traditional sense, but before he died, he said, “my greatest legacy are you guys; my kids”.

The anniversary of my father’s death brings with it so many complicated emotions. No one can ever really prepare you for what grief will feel like. Some say the bigger the love, the more grief to feel. I think that is a statement relied on to ease the gut wrenching, awful, “choke you out” pain that grief is.

 When my father died, the veil was lifted off my eyes and I was able to finally accept the capacity and reality of my relationship with my mom. I’ve written, edited and deleted the following sentences no less than one hundred times. However, it’s a significant chunk of the trauma. Within hours of my father dying, my mom screamed at me because I was not crying. She accused me of not grieving. In the moment I thought that was about me. I thought she was reprimanding me yet again. With therapy and reflection, I can see now that she was scared and lashed out at who was “safe”. I was always going to be there begging for her to love, accept and acknowledge me. I would always come back for more.

I lost both my mom and my dad that day.

I purchased a “dear spouse” cheesy Mother’s Day card for my mom in the same style of cheesy card that my dad used to choose for her. I scribbled his name on it (at 41 years old, I was an expert at my dad’s signature), and My mom got to experience a “one more” card from her person, three days after he passed away.

Five weeks after my father died, my mother died for real. The South Carolina coroner said ‘heart related disease’ was her cause of death. She was 62.

Maybe she died from a broken heart, maybe she died from a stroke, maybe she died from a broken spirit. Either way she was not supposed to be on this earth without him.

I have experienced the torture of saying goodbye in anticipation of death and the traumatic shock in response to an unexpected death…within weeks of each other. They are equally awful.  

May brings with it the anniversary of my father’s death and Mother’s Day.

June brings the anniversary of my mother’s death and Father’s Day.  

On April 21, 2021, I sent my father a text that said, “Just saying Hi and I love you!”

His reply: “You brought a smile to my face! Thanks, and same to you.”

Two weeks, fourteen days later, he died.

And four years later, as I write this, I feel a heaviness like concrete in my chest and a deep aching in my bones, settling in to remind me that my season of grief is here.