I was relieved when my father died (and my husband, too!). Here’s why that’s okay…

On the first installment of "The things we don't say," I present to you: Feeling relieved is normal! 

Warning, this a bit of a longer post than usual, and mentions addiction, mental illness, and cancer. 

This won't resonate with some, especially if a death was sudden. However, for those who watched their person suffer, or who suffered themselves, relief is a normal facet of loss. Of course, guilt follows (immediately), but today I will dare to share two totally different losses, and the different ways I've felt relief.

My father was a mentally ill addict. Even at 41, this is hard for me to write. There is so much judgement/stigma surrounding mental illness and addiction separately, throw them together, and it's a mess. As a child, I bore the brunt of his rage, which has lead to a lifetime of battling with an inner voice that tells me that I am unlovable. To this day, I have to work with myself on this. I also have empathy towards him; he, himself, was suffering, and as I'm years separated from the events of my youth, I can see that. 

When I was in my mid-twenties, he began to lose his battle with addiction. I helped my mom find several rehabs for him (I think he went to maybe 4-5 the last couple of years). When he'd get home, he would hop in his car, and go right out to the liquor store. We had police come try to reason with him. We feared that he'd harm someone drunk driving, but as he'd been a cop...let's just say, they were hesitant to do much, since he was one of their own. I had more than my share of motel attendants lash out at me when he'd trash a hotel room, after my mom divorced him. I always felt like the world blamed us for his addictions. It all tied in together for me. He blamed me. They blamed me. Maybe if I'd never been born, or been a better kid, he would have been just fine (41 years, I still carry this in my head). 

By my late 20's, we'd convinced him to attend an out of state rehab, specifically meant for law enforcement. We heard from him a couple of times...then he vanished. A year or two went by. I always assumed he'd pop back up (he'd done the disappearing act before). We all lived with the anxiety of not knowing. Until...we didn't. 

January of 2009, my mom called my desk at work. I remember it was a good day. I was happy. Work was going well. Having recently suffered two early miscarriages, I finally felt like I was shaking it off. It occurred to me in the 1.3 seconds it took to bring the phone to my ear, that my mother had never called my work desk before. I'm not even sure I said hello before she quickly blurted "Your father died." I was so stunned, I'm not sure I said much other than I would call my brother to let him know. 

The weeks following were a blur. I didn't recognize the face of the person in the box at the funeral home. His nose was mangled. Police had determined that he'd died in his apartment, alone, several days before being found (only being found because his dog wouldn't stop barking). 

When I flew to Florida to clean out his belongings, his car looked like it had been in an accident. Police never mentioned that, but as a family, we suspect he was in an accident and hit his head. Probably too intoxicated to realize how injured he was, he passed in his apartment later. The rug had been strategically cut around where his body had been. I found a box with his journals from rehab, that the attendees were supposed to have shared aloud. It was filled with nonsensical "events" that never happened. He wrote that he'd been at Vietnam and 9/11, that my mother had died and that we kids had shunned him in his grief. His girlfriend got my information from the apartment manager, and herself was stunned to find my mother was, in fact, alive (and that he was also not a veteran). It was a sucker punch in succession with a hundred others. My stomach sank with every "story" she relayed to me, supposedly about me, that was not only untrue, but malicious in nature. 

I felt relief, at that moment, that I wouldn't get any more sucker punches from my Dad. This, I hoped, would be the last. It was only later, as I began to do the work of unpacking such a complicated relationship, that I would begin to feel sad for him. Sad for the life he never lived. Sad for the relationship we never had. Sad for the future he would never get to be a part of. 

I'm sure there are those would say they understood my relief in this scenario. It's "justified" when someone feels relieved that the person who was mean to them, ostensibly, can't harm them any longer. But here's the thing...I felt relieved when my husband, Kenny, passed away, too. 

He didn't abuse me. He didn't hurt me intentionally, maybe ever. He wasn't perfect (no one is), nor was our relationship, but he was my best friend and partner for two decades of my life. 

Three years after he helped me through my dad's passing, Kenny was diagnosed with a brain tumor; just ten days after our second child was born. He was 30 at the time. 

A seemingly anxious doctor at the local ER told us what they found, an egg sized glioma on his left frontal lobe. He'd been having, what we now know, were small seizures for the better part of a year (short periods of being unable to speak). 

Through tears, he pulled me in, close to his face, and he said "You don't ever let me be a vegetable, ok?" He said it quietly, but sternly. As if it would be the only time he'd have the guts to say it out loud, and he wanted to make sure I understood.

Those words would echo in my mind many times. 

For nearly 5 years, he went through surgeries, experimental treatments, traditional treatments, and lost bits of himself slowly, until the tumor went full throttle. I remember the look on his face when they told us that his remission had been short lived. His tumor had grown back, and appeared to have become aggressive. He was exhausted. 

December 23, 2016, standing outside of Memorial Sloan Kettering, on the corner of 63rd St. in New York, I knew it was over. Not because of the doctors or the tumors, but because he himself was making peace with it. He said to me, "It sucks, but at least I know how I'm going to go." Oh, Kenny, ever my "control freak" husband. It shouldn't have surprised me he would find comfort in "knowing," but it did. I cried. I asked him to stop saying that. I begged him not to give up. To this day, I'm angry at myself for it...it was selfish of me. He was done, and I pressed him to keep going. 

He tried. I don't know if he tried for himself or because I begged him to, but he tried. He did more chemo that made him feel crappy, and went through another craniotomy that removed all of the tumor, only for it to grow back in three weeks time. By the time we knew it was really not working, he didn't have the mental competence left to make decisions. He needed me to make those decisions for him. The Kenny left wasn't ours; he was a walking, talking tumor with memories. He couldn't read or watch TV. He couldn't control his body anymore. All the while I could hear his words, "You don't let me be a vegetable."

I had to decide it was time to stop treatment. I had to decide it was time to let him go. I know it was what he wanted. I know that no good would have come from making him try more; but the months of watching his descent have left a mark on my soul that I will absolutely never recover from. It was a soul crushing experience, that I wouldn't wish on an enemy. 

He passed away just after midnight on April 20, 2017. After the hospice nurse, policeman and funeral home folks left, I experienced my first sunrise as a widow. I felt relieved knowing he wouldn't be fighting anymore. I felt relieved that maybe he felt whole again. And yes, I felt relieved, in the moment, that our children and I wouldn't have to watch him suffer any longer. 

Relief is such a little discussed feeling because the optics of admitting it are terrible. What kind of MONSTER feels relieved?

 But, through my years of "sitting in the suck" of grief, I've learned one really huge thing: that multiple things can be true at the same time. Our society tends to paint pictures of grief as one dimensional, and simple. You're either in the sad, black box or grief, or you're not. 

Those of us who have a lot of experience here, however, know how it really is. I know that I can be hurt by my history with my dad, and I can feel sad for him. I can struggle with what happened, and I can wish that he's at peace now. 

I know that I did the right thing by my husband, but that it was the hardest thing. 

In this case? I know that it's normal to feel relieved after loss, and I can still be mourning the person I lost (or the person I never got to have). Being human can be hard enough, but being one after complicated losses can make you feel insane. 

As Joan Didion put it so succinctly, "Grief, when it comes, is nothing we expect it to be." 

Be kind to yourself, friends.

Xoxo