Time is a Cruel Gift

Is there anything that makes you analyze the concept of time more than death? 

Ever since my dad died I have obviously been thinking a lot about death. For years, to me death meant growing old, or deteriorating as the years went on. It meant attending funerals for people who had lives well spent and a legacy to leave behind. I also thought a lot about death in relation to my addiction. There were days when I didn’t think I’d wake up, but I did. And back then, I didn’t care if I woke up or not. But when you get sober, it’s all about getting your life back. I learned to want to be alive. I found magic in the mundane. I learned how to be grateful for the weather and coffee in the morning. I think I felt that because I had cheated death in my addiction and got sober, death eluded me and my loved ones. To be honest, death was the furthest thing from my mind.

I used to willingly say things like, “live every day like it’s your last!” But I didn’t actually know what that meant, until now. The clock is always ticking. That’s a horrible reality and a comforting truth to many. I guess another way to say that is, “change is the only constant.” Again, this could be comforting to some and horrifying to others. I think what terrifies me is that I’ve realized how little we know about the future or anything. Heavy drinking and using drugs for years might not take a person’s life, but a sudden and random cardiac event could rob them of their life. Even if someone is healthy, works out, eats well, and goes to all their doctor appointments, they could still die randomly without warning and for no good reason.

In addition to thinking about the timing of death, there’s the fact that the passing of time is cruel in grief’s wake. When someone you love dies it feels like time stops. But time does in fact not stop. It never does for anything or anyone. While I cried because my dad’s heart gave out suddenly, inside my uterus a heart was beating strongly. And so while time felt like it stopped when my dad died, just two months later I gave birth to my son and I became a mom. Time did that. 

Now, almost five months postpartum I feel myself still paralyzed by time. The passing of time is a reminder that I’m still here and my dad is not. It’s a reminder that milestones and holidays still come and pass, and that my dad won’t be here to celebrate, or text me, or call me, or help me. Simultaneously, the passing of time is a gift that means my son is growing and thriving. Each month we count his age, his achievements, his new physical attributes, and his weight and height. But each month I’m reminded that my dad no longer ages, his physical attributes do not change, and we don’t talk about his new achievements. 

This week I turned 36 years old and as a gemini I am normally excited to celebrate my birthday, but not this year. This birthday was just another reminder that time is marching forward without my dad. It was another reminder that he wasn’t here to celebrate with me. And it was another reminder that I have no idea how much longer I’ll be here or how many more birthdays I’ll have.

I think for some people grief catapults them into taking hold of their life, using it to make something of themselves, and leave something behind. I want to feel that way and I think one day I will. But right now it just feels like I’m slowly riding a wave that’s navigating shallow waters.  

I am angry at time and also blessed by it. It’s the one thing we all wish we could get more of, or stop, or travel back in. 

My therapist tells me to think of right now as a season of my life. One that is a bit sadder and harder to be in, but it won’t last forever. I find this hard to do. I don’t know if I can think of life in seasons anymore when it could be over tomorrow. 

This “thinking about my life,” thing, or when and how it will end, has been a hard side effect of grief and the postpartum period. Although it may be morbid, I think it’s normal and I am working on acceptance with that. I sometimes wonder what life will look like a year from now and if I will look back and think damn, that was painful. And I think that’s my way of finding hope during this time.