OverFlow: Could Grief and Celebration Co-Exist? Signs Point to Yes.
Here's a much-needed post-Halloween and post-All Souls' Day piece to remember my late—but never forgotten—father figures.
OverFlow is what happens when I overthink, overflow, and over-everything. When my feelings have nowhere to go, I write about them.
When did you realize that your parents weren’t immortal and invincible?
I know that no one is immortal in real life. Who wants to live forever, anyway? But as a child, I freaked out whenever one of my parents was sick. I’d get clingy and weepy and tell them that I didn’t want to die. My mom and dad would reassure me that they weren’t going anywhere, their words usually accompanied by exasperated smiles and the occasional laughter. (Yes, I was very dramatic—and I still am.)
And you know what? I believed them. I didn’t think they were Scottish Highlanders or anything like that. But as I grew older, I just assumed they’d always be there for me.
But yesterday, I was reminded of the fact that both my dads weren’t in this plane of existence anymore. November 14 is Tito Manny’s birthday and my parents’ wedding anniversary. No matter what, I’ll always think of them when the second week of November rolls around.
On Learning How to Grieve
As you can probably tell, most of the grief I still hold in me is for my two father figures: Tito Manny and my actual dad. But I’d also lost all four grandparents before I turned 25—so grief wasn’t exactly a strange and new concept to me in my thirties.
I just wasn’t good at grieving, period. No one should be good at it—because that would mean that they’d had a lot of practice, and that’s just not something I would want to wish on anyone. But maybe it’s not just about practicing, but processing, too.
Emotional distance is a family heirloom that I inherited at birth, after all. My family doesn’t handle feelings and emotions well, in that they don’t handle them at all. There was no one to teach me how to grieve properly, so I learned how to do it on my own. I wrote about it a lot and probably tamped down what I couldn’t put into words in some forgotten attic in my mind palace.
On Losing My Dad’s Best Friend
My father wasn’t the easiest person to love—though I doubt he’d agree with my assessment—which made his relationship with his best friend all the more special. Tito Manny was the opposite. Everyone wanted to hang out with him. Charismatic, cool, and always candid, he was my second dad throughout my childhood and beyond.
Through their friendship, I learned that soulmates don’t always have to be lovers. I learned that distance and frequency don’t have anything to do with what makes a relationship last. I learned that true love means accepting someone as they are and not as their potential best self. Tito Manny was always so compassionate and patient and genuinely there for my dad. I strive to be the same kind of person for all my friends.
When he died, I didn’t know how to handle it. I felt like I didn’t have the right to grieve as deeply as his family did—and does to this day, I’m sure. How silly, right? Tito Manny would have laughed at that admission and told me to just feel what I feel. He’d be right, too.
On Losing My Dad to Cancer
There’s not much that I haven’t written yet about losing my dad. It’s become a central part of my creative process. Honestly, I subconsciously silence my dad-related grief episodes about half the time they happen because I don’t want my entire identity to be “the girl that lost her dad to cancer.” That’s exactly who I am, though.
I still used his multitool to fix stuff around our apartment. I still talk to him on Facebook Messenger. I imagine him walking beside me when I don’t have the motivation to work out. I watch videos of him playing the guitar when I can’t sleep. I listen to “Sleep Walk” during bad mental health days to remind me of how he used to comfort me.
In my mind palace, my dad is very much alive. I sometimes worry that not being able to let go of my grief may be keeping his spirit attached to this world. Could my wallowing cause me to be his unfinished business? I hope not. At times, it feels selfish and indulgent to still be sad about his death.
Again, isn’t that silly? My dad would also tell me to just feel what I feel. And like Tito Manny, he’d also be right.
On Learning How to Celebrate the Lives of Those No Longer With Us
I didn’t get to pay my respects to my dad and Tito Manny on or near Halloween. Instead, I was worried about my dog Loaf. I actually talked to my deceased pets—there are quite a few, as I’ve had pet dogs since birth—and asked them to help my dog get through what we know is a tickborne disease.
(As an aside, since I lit candles and wailed like a baby while talking to my former pets, I’ve been feeling nothings bump into my legs and feet all the time. Not a single thing would be on the ground, and I’d trip or feel something press against my calves. It’s almost like by calling on them, I’d inadvertently brought the ghosts of all my dead dogs together in this apartment. Not complaining about it, really. But obviously, this is not always convenient!)
Yesterday, I felt it would be the proper time to remember my two dads the way I’ll always see them in my mind: playing their guitars, drinking, laughing, having a ball, and generally just being each other’s ride or die. I listened to ‘60s and ‘70s music all day. I looked at old photos. And you know what? It felt like a celebration.
I’m still sad that I can’t talk to them in person ever again. But I think yesterday proved that I’m finally starting to get good at grieving. Love in its purest form shouldn’t hurt—and I don’t want to be hurt by my grief anymore. Tito Manny and my dad wouldn’t want that, either.
To honor my love for them and their love for me, I’m going to try and celebrate a little more and grieve a little less. Should the two intersect at times, I’ll try not to beat myself up about it—because that’s what my two dads would want me to do.
If you’ve enjoyed reading this or something else I’ve written, please consider buying me a coffee. ☕ Thank you!