The Ugly Cry

I got my nails done the other day.

I watched as two elderly parents enjoyed a pedicure with their grown daughter. There was a sweetness between them. A kindness, a love that was almost tangible. I had to turn away.

The anniversary of my dad's death was in two days. He didn't come into my life until my twenties and, though our relationship could be complicated at times, it was something we both wanted, worked for and cherished. When cancer stole him, it felt like a cruel twist of fate.

Seeing how the father in the nail salon truly enjoyed spending time with his daughter, even if it was a pedicure, made the moments I'll never have sting. Suddenly the grief was fresh and big and jagged.

As the nail tech finished my nails, she noticed the tears that caught me by surprise. That I had been trying to hide

“Did I hurt you?”

"No, no, no. It's just a hard day. My nails are perfect."

She asked what was wrong and as I stumbled through my explanation, I fought to keep the ugly cry at bay. She handed me a tissue. Even though there was a language barrier, at that moment I felt more seen and understood than I had in a very long time. Compassion is a gulp of air when you are drowning.

Grief makes people uncomfortable. They acknowledge it but politely avoid it. Loss isn't something people know how to be around until they have been through it.

For those of us grieving, we understand. So we stop talking. Not because we have ‘gotten over it’. But because we know people don't want to - or can't - enter into this kind of pain. It doesn't change our journey, though. It's still there. Exhausting, lonely, and unpredictable.

As soon as I got to my car, the ugly cry took over. I miss his phone calls. His texts. His voice. His laugh. His advice. His humor. The way he would say, "I'm so proud of you my girl". How highly he spoke of my husband. And OH! How he bragged about my kids and grandkids!!! Every visit was a happy reunion.

I miss him.

And this time of year is really hard.

Thank you for sharing this space with me.