Grief in an App

It’s fashionably late.  

It’s reinvented.

It’s in the now. 

* * * * * 

The Washington Commanders are in the playoffs - one win from making it to the SuperBowl.  The Washington Redskins were my Dad’s favorite team - just about the only thing I ever saw him passionate about - screaming at the TV, shaking his fists, that kind of thing.  He watched every game, sometimes inches away from the screen.  

The hype of Sunday’s game has kicked up some grief dust - another thing he’ll miss being a part of, another would-be bonding moment with my husband he won’t have, another chance to talk sports with his grandson that I’ll only imagine in my mind.

* * * * * 

My Dad died of mouth cancer at age 57.  I was a week into being 24.  I was a very focused, very grounded young adult.  His dying was not sudden nor was it much of a surprise.  He wasn’t a huge part of my life before; I was used to not relying on him in any daily or heavy lift way.  Even still, his dying was a lot.  

My mom and dad were amicably divorced long before his illness and decline.  Though my mom desperately tried to help in every situation she could, I was the next of kin, his only child.  Legally, I had to largely handle the “business” of his death.  I signed a lot of papers.  We drove to the nursing home to retrieve his possessions within two hours after he passed, so that the room could be prepared for the next person on the waitlist.  Suddenly I had some hospital socks, fingernail clippers, a TV, some headphones, a plastic mini-basketball and over-the-door hoop, his notebooks, and a half-deflated balloon in the trunk of the car. 

 We picked the cemetery plot, which involved meeting a man leaning against a tree next to a shovel.  That was alarming.  Mom and I were so sleep deprived at that moment that we just looked from the shovel, to the tree, the man, looked at each other, then burst into horrified laughter.  I picked the gravestone and what would be inscribed upon it.  I helped edit the obituary.  I coordinated with the florist.  We planned the visitation and funeral service.  

My mom at one point worked five jobs.  One of them was bookkeeping for a church, so that was how we procured a pastor for the service.  He remained poised through our planning session, particularly when we tried to guess at what Bible verse dad would appreciate, eventually choosing two of the most generic, mainstream, all-occasion ones.  

I went shopping for clothes he might like to be buried in.  I had to spend the dozens of  remaining dollars in his checking account not going toward funeral arrangements.  I walked around Walmart in a daze, the growing to-do list clouding my ability to choose anything symbolic.  I ended up with a pair of glassy, crystal-like candle holders.  I still have them today but don’t use them often.  We picked a few things he might like to be buried with - all of this our best guess; there were no previous discussions or instructions left behind. 

It was 2001, so there were no cell phones or social media to quickly tell people.  I think I must’ve called a few people on an actual phone and then sent an email to the next circle beyond them.  My friends George and Abbey drove from Harrisonburg to Salem round-trip two days in a row to go to both the visitation and the funeral the next day.  My friend Cyrus sent a flowering plant from Brooklyn.  I got a few really nice emails from some JMU drumline buddies.  My friend Kevin called me back after getting my voicemail and asked what he could do to help.  It was one of the distinct times in my life that I remember having a specific answer to such a question: “could you come to the service?”.  He did, driving a sizable distance to make it happen.  I wept into his sleeve.  

Locally there were friends and relatives.  My grandparents were there, dressed in their finest and my mom leaned on them heavily.  Lifelong family friends Karen and her daughter Melissa, my childhood bestie, were around every step of the way.  Friends from the skating rink brought food and made us laugh for a bit.  Manfred and Tonia were there.  Mom’s coworkers and friends stopped by.  We had a small but mighty village.  

My dad had three sisters.  I only knew one of them.  A few days after he passed, one of them I’d never met before came to town from Ohio, I think.  She didn’t really try to get to know me too much.  She spent most of her visit with my Aunt Boots catching up and eventually taking a large percentage of my dad’s things from his and Boot’s apartment in her car back to Ohio.  Boots called to sorta warn me that if I wanted anything I should maybe come and look; I don’t think she knew how to deal with her sister’s sudden cyclonic visit.  I got a couple shirts, a jacket I had bought for his birthday earlier that year, a couple belt buckles, and a Redskins hat.  I still wonder what the sister in Ohio, I think, is doing with the set of Strawberry Shortcake glasses that dad had kept all those years after the divorce.  Strawberry Shortcake was my favorite. 

He died on Monday, August 13th.  The funeral was Friday, August 17th.  I drove back to NoVa on Sunday, the 18th.  The business of his death was over.  

I had a boyfriend during this period.  Most of my free time defaulted to being around him.  He didn’t drive down for the funeral for his own schmuck-y reasons, mostly workaholic ones.  The non-proximity of my close friends meant that I accepted this as better than nothing.  I was honestly so worn out I couldn’t have made any social or relationship decisions with any clarity.  I told myself at least he was mostly nice and liked to go out to eat.  And he really liked working, so he’d likely end up successful?  

Five days after the funeral, I had to move out of the townhouse I was living in and into a new apartment.  Ten days after the funeral, I started my teacher contract at a new school, having been destaffed at the previous one that I was heartbroken to leave.  Nowadays someone would’ve maybe nudged me to ask for a day or two, maybe even a week or two, to process?  But to my memory, I had no such guidance.  It didn’t occur to me to ask for anything, and I assumed that missing the first days of contract, especially when I was brand new to the school,  was too big a deal to consider.

So I showed up to that job with that new commute and new schedule and new building and new people and…dove in.  There was a lot of introducing myself to staff members and I didn’t mention to a single one, besides the other music teachers, that my dad had died two weeks ago.  The more days that went by meant it felt more awkward to tell anyone, and it didn’t exactly come up.  I decided everyone’s first impression of me was more important than anything I’d maybe get out of talking it out with these busy people who also had to set up their classrooms and attend countless meetings and trainings and plan for the school year.  

And what would I have gotten, really?  Some sympathy cards?  A few polite, “I’m sorry for your loss” sentiments?  Flowers from basically strangers at that point? 

What I needed was some grace.  Some leeway.  Permission to just be for a while without heaves of effort.  Time with my close friends.  

None of my close friends lived within an hour from me.  Even my then-roommate wasn’t a close friend yet.  I had only been out of college and on my own for about eighteen months.  I had not found NoVa to be a very welcoming place.  The only regularity of people I saw were through work and the majority of them were brand new personalities.  I’d see some of the same people at the Gold’s Gym I attended but they all seemed preoccupied with various career ventures or already have a closed circle of friends.  I would often tell others that I couldn’t hack the password to Northern Virginia.  I missed college terribly.  All of this to say, it was a rather tough time.  

* * * * * 

Almost six months ago, my best friend moved to Germany.  We’ve known each other for over 25 years, went to college together, and went to grad school together.  And for the seven years prior to the big move, we taught music together at the same school.  We could finish each other’s sentences and lesson plan in seconds.  We had all the same training, by the same teachers, at the same time.  It does wonders to speed things up.  Her daughter is only four months younger than my son.  We were figuring out infant, then toddler, then kindergarten together.  How to teach virtually during a pandemic, then concurrently, then masked and socially distanced, and all of the post-pandemic mental fallout.  We were navigating what being married is like after five years, after eight, after ten.  The first phone call after learning I had breast cancer.  She orchestrated mountains of support and has heard my entire heart explode in ways no one else has.  Michelle was part of my every single day.  

She and I also have very similar upbringings.  We’re both from small town “country folk”, what we often refer to as “country shit.”  Both of our dads were alcoholics.  Both of our dads died in ways related to being an alcoholic.  There are oceans of nuance, psychology, and constellation entwined in our friendship. 

She moved.  I had about three months between learning of her plans and her boarding the plane.  We processed the change both separately and together.  The first of those three months was brutal.  I was pretty angry before becoming deeply sad.  It felt like a gut punch.  But I also recall quite a bit of sitting with my feelings. And I was given grace.  Leeway.  Permission to just be for a while.  We talked through it, even the angry and uncomfortable parts.  It was a chance to deliberately grow through a big change in a healthy, mature way, in lock-step with one another.  

She and I started using the app ‘Marco Polo’ a couple years ago.  I don’t remember exactly when, but it was very established before she moved as a way to share the more “real life” stuff.  If you don’t know what the app is, it’s a way to record a video message to someone and send it the way you’d send a text, and without it taking up storage space in your camera roll.  The receiving person can listen to it whenever they want.  It’s nice to actually see each other’s face and hear each other’s voice while listening to messages.  She’s shown me a bunch of Stutgart’s playgrounds, parks, and castles while I’ve shown her oceanside views of the Florida keys, sidewalk noise of NYC, and recent snowy walks in the wooded trails of Reston.  A Marco Polo from Michelle is one of my favorite notifications to get upon waking up.  

Every once in a while, the app will suggest I find more friends to Marco Polo.  It’ll sorta shuffle a few of my contacts and put a few upfront and center with a “invite contact” button.  I don’t typically fool with this but a couple months ago I was taken aback when one suggestion popped up.  

Dad. 

Invite contact?  

Sorta intrigued, I clicked the button.  If only.

Now, Dad shows up in my list of contacts in the app.  Under his name it says, “hasn’t joined yet”.  Then under that, in tiny blue font: “Try sending a video invite”.  

If.  Only.

I’ll admit to being a bit jarred by seeing the word “Dad” in this list.  Using this app almost daily, it’s something I can now decide to see every time I open it.  He’s third on the list of people I can interact with.  Here are some other things I can do with Dad:  Start a group.  Favorite.  Set Chat Tile.  Give Dad a Plus Pass.  Report.  Block or Delete Chat.  So…I’ve got options?   

* * * * *

A friend of mine recently lost her grandfather.  She told me a little about him.  He sounded lovely, the little tibits she included, and like a good grandfather.  I observed her sadness and openness to being sad about it and the time she took away to deal with it.  It was so thoughtful.  It was poised and not poised at the same time, in that chaotic manner that losing a loved one brings.  

t made me miss my own grandfather, who passed away six years ago.  At the time, I was sad of course, but I was also hardened - a pro at this death in the family thing.  No sense getting worked up, this happens, there’s things to be done.  Don’t fall apart.  Your kid needs you, just throw yourself into doing the parent thing.  You can file the sadness away later.

The only freshened up part of grieving my grandfather that I couldn’t access when my dad died was writing.  I was not yet a writer when my dad died.  I thumb-typed a tribute to my grandfather that grew in both length and sentiment as it went, while on the drive down to help my mom plan his military honors service.  I ended up reading that tribute at the funeral, which was very difficult, but I was thankful to have something concrete, something to represent how I felt about him, something I could contribute both in that moment but also reflect back on whenever I read it in the future.  

* * * * *  

Gregory lived across the street from me growing up.  He was my neighborhood buddy.  We’ve unfortunately lost touch with one another, but I have so many great memories.  He got me started on the path to my tomboy, girl drummer, baggy clothes, not afraid of a little dirt and hard work persona.  He taught me how to do BMX tricks on my bike and skateboard.  We rode our bikes all over town, built forts, caught caterpillars and bugs, dug up “treasures” in the yard then fought about who they belonged to, and watched scary movies we shouldn’t have.  We competed for who could throw the crabapples the farthest.  His backyard was also the Temple of Doom.  Greg was technically my first kiss - under the library table in kindergarten.  

I was scrolling Facebook a couple weeks ago and his mom popped up.  She had updated her profile picture.  Yes, we’ve all aged, but this recent picture features the same kind smile and warmth I remember.  Something about this picture in particular really took me back to those childhood days and maybe in some connection to the fact that my own son is at an age that I had this particular friendship, I had an overwhelm of emotion that kinda surprised me.  I’ve looked back at the picture a few times and I tear up every time I see it.

* * * * *

Remember, I’ve got my Marco Polo invitation so I’ve got options.  But my friend Roxanne and her dad do a little dad-daughter book club.  They most recently read The Alchemist and then talked about it when they saw each other at Thanksgiving.  

I’ve been friends with her for at least a decade and I had completely blocked out the fact that her dad is a) alive and b) active in her life. She stood there in the NYC hotel room we were sharing, and I think at one point she may have even invited me to read the book too, even join in somehow in their discussion of the book - here, a real invitation!  With a real dad!  But I was stunned by this breaking news.  

I’m sure she’d mentioned him before, but what’s more possible is that I don’t hear things like this when my friends say them.  It’s part of the hardening.  Stuff like this can’t get in.  

* * * * * 

I can add my Dad as a favorite on Marco Polo, so I’m good.  My friend Christina’s dad is a percussionist.  They air-drum and drum-talk to “Sleigh Ride” in the car every December.  This is the kind of detail that can break through my shell, because I can completely imagine such a thing.  Sure, it helps that I also know every single percussion part to “Sleigh Ride”.  But I’d never stopped to imagine a world where someone could share something like that with their actual dad.  Like, mere weeks ago this kind of thing happened in my friend’s car.  This is suddenly fascinating, from where I sit.

* * * * * 

This grief feels old fashioned.  It’s stuck in 2001 at the Blue Ridge Monument front desk, repeating to the woman that it was my ‘father’ who died, not grandfather.  She didn’t think I looked old enough to be ordering a gravestone for a father.  

This grief is a move on, already.  A pick up and move into the apartment, buy a new outfit for the first day at a new school.  Go to grad school because it’ll give your days direction and purpose and eventually a higher income.  

* * * * * 
My son recently had the flu.  I was having a really tough morning, also sick myself, and trying to get him to take the flu medicine.  He was refusing and getting worked up about the awful taste and I desperately needed to drag him with me to see a doctor so I could get some medicine for myself.  One of those awful intersections of parenting.  

A friend - one of the most seemingly confident people I know - was texting me a bunch of ideas for how to get him to do it.  Mix it into a slushie.  Add it to Gatorade and ice and a little bit of sugar.  It’s a sensory thing.  So much knowledge and conviction coming at me, from a friend almost twenty years younger.    

I managed to get him to take it straight, after a pep talk of desperation.  I texted her, proud of my accomplishment, and thanked her for all the ideas I’d now be able to file away for future flus.  

She added a little story of how her dad used to take the medicine with her.  “He would not be sick and would just slam a children’s Motrin lol”.  I giggled.  That is pretty funny and kinda adorable.  

The connection between her access to memories like this and her confidence is not lost on me.  We can do more with more, perhaps.  

* * * * * 

This grief is an old song, like John Lennon’s “Imagine” - one of my Dad’s favorites.  But Jon Batiste wrote the song, “Butterfly” in 2023 and I only discovered it about twelve days ago.  It’s a jaw drop for me, over and over.  I’m not alone, the song was nominated for a Grammy. I’m having some sort of cosmic connection to it, like I was meant to only hear it exactly in this time. And there’s a lyric in it that I can’t get out of my brain.

You see, I’m howling at the moon / Day and night, ah-woo-hoo 

They say I’m as crazy as a loon / But I’m alright all dressed in white

Matt and I got married in the backyard of a sunshine yellow farmhouse-turned-inn.  Elizabeth, owner of the inn and makeshift wedding coordinator in this situation, knew of the situation with my Dad because I had a brief conversation with her about lighting a candle next to a picture of him somewhere tangential to the event.  To get to the actual wedding spot, I would walk from the side yard of the house to the backyard where we had a standup ceremony near the barn and a beautiful oak.  

We deliberately decided not to have bridesmaids, so when it was time to walk down “the aisle”, it was just me.  Several friends and family questioned me on this, making sure I was okay with being alone in such a moment traditionally reserved for the father of the bride.  But this was a moment emotionally rehearsed.  I welcomed the symbolic nature of having gotten myself to this moment through a lot of my own perseverance; I could walk a little further on my own.  

Before the big moment, it was just Elizabeth and me.  She would tell me when I should go, coordinating with Cyrus playing the chosen song on guitar and other little matters.  I paused for a moment, standing in a little garden at the top of the tree line, in full bloom that gorgeous late-April afternoon.  Elizabeth was fooling with the small train of my dress when she stopped suddenly to tell me in a hushed voice that a butterfly had landed on my dress.  I turned and saw it.  It stayed for a beat, circled, then fluttered off in the direction I was headed.  “That’s good luck, you know,” Elizabeth said quietly.  

* * * * *

This grief has always felt old, like a dress you’ll keep but never wear again.  It’s weird to feel it mingle with technology and new friends.  Book clubs and new music.  It’s spilling out of the old dusty box in the basement holding those nail clippers and the funeral home guest book.  It’s reinvented.  It’s in the now.  I’m opening the windows a bit, airing it out.  And maybe one day, I’ll send it a video invite.  

(Oh, and let’s go Commanders!  I’ll be wearing your shirt.)