When Two Griefs Collide

I brace myself and ring the doorbell.

Through the glass I can see a nurse hurrying past.

A patient wanders barefoot along the corridor. A doctor in green scrubs strides along, engrossed in his pager.

The doorbell’s still ringing. I feel invisible. My nerves rise.

I turn and gaze up at the gum trees behind me. Behind them, through the dark mangroves, I can see the silvery waters of the Parramatta river.

It’s a pretty spot for a hospital, perched on the riverbank. There’s a trail along the foreshore, starting at the main hospital and winding around the back of the mental health facility where I’m standing.

I used to run that trail when I was a physiotherapist here years ago. I’d run across the Rhodes bridge and along the other side of the river to Putney and back, training for my marathon.

I used to love that thrill of returning to the Physiotherapy department after dark, hours after everyone else had left.

I used to get a kick out of feeling invincible. Of feeling like I could never end up in a hospital bed like my patients.

But now my arrogance of youth has faded.

I ring the doorbell again. This time a nurse arrives, unlocking the door with a key on her belt.

Sorry love busy morning. I smile and thank her.

We pass the nurses’ station. A patient sits on the counter, waiting.

Further along the corridor there’s a tv on. A small crowd of patients is sitting around it in armchairs. One man is lying on a couch. Some are watching the tv, others are staring into space. One lady is smacking her head with her hand. I know that feeling.

Then I see him.

He steps outside his door. He’s barefoot and unshaven, wearing an old woollen jumper, green pants and a vacant stare.

His eyes fill with tears. Good to see you love.

My dad.

I’ve flown home this weekend to remember my old beloved teacher who passed away suddenly.

And while I’m back I’m visiting dad in the mental health unit where he’s been for a few weeks now.

I’m in the midst of two griefs colliding.

I’m grieving for the loss of my mentor / teacher / running coach / friend, who is no longer in this physical world.

And I’m also grieving for my dad.

But it’s a different kind of grief.

Because my dad is still physically here… but his mind is elsewhere. He’s no longer the dad I knew.

And perhaps I never really knew him. My older sisters can remember dad before his bipolar, but I can’t.

Dr Pauline Boss calls it ‘ambiguous loss’. When your loved one is physically here but they’re psychologically gone.

'Ambiguous loss makes us feel incompetent. It erodes our sense of mastery and destroys our belief in the world as a fair, orderly and manageable place.' - Dr Pauline Boss

I’ve lived with ambiguous loss for decades. My sisters, brother, mum, too.

My ambiguous grief is a hot mess of secondary emotions… A sloppy, undercooked layer cake of grief, guilt, anger, rage, despair, emptiness, hopelessness, helplessness. There’s never a sense of closure. Some days I just feel tired.

I give him a hug. Hi dad.

Deep inside me a little girl starts crying. She’s hurt and confused and can’t understand why he’s in here.

I let the tears leak to the surface for a few brief seconds.

Then I pull on my act and push it all down.

This time reminds me of all the other times.

Like the time I brought him to the emergency department in my 20s. I sat with him for hours waiting to be transferred, then broke hospital protocol – with the doctor’s permission – and drove him down to mental health by myself at midnight. I can still hear the doctor’s low voice, yes his daughter’s here, she seems sensible, she’ll bring his file.

Like the time I helped the nurses change his bed while he lay helpless, catatonic. I remember my pregnant belly bumping against the bed rail.

Like the time I played in the waiting room as an innocent 5 year old and he snapped at me coldly, forever changed.

I follow him inside as the door closes behind us.

I used to think I’d never end up in a place like this. But now I’m not so sure. Now I realise there’s a hair’s breadth between sanity and insanity…

How little it would take to cross the line into the murky unknown of the human mind. 

Part of me is heartbroken that my dad – my DAD – is here. And part of me is grateful that he is.

We sit outside and chat briefly. I slip into my familiar act with false brightness. Nothing to see here folks, we’re just a father and daughter having a chat.

A man wearing a tracksuit, holding his arms stiff, walks past on his toes. Dad introduces me. Rob, meet my daughter.

I do love that about my dad. He’s played in Carnegie Hall with world class musicians, yet he treats everyone with the same respect, whether they’re a barefoot, homeless, geriatric mental health patient or a violin virtuoso.

Paul tells me he has no fixed address. I smile and say we have that in common. Only mine is a lifestyle choice.

I take dad outside on leave. I drive him to my mum’s house for the day to see the nieces and nephews. He sits on the couch dozing for most of it.

I drop him back in the evening. I don’t feel anything – perhaps relief? – as the nurse locks the door behind him.

I call him from the airport two days later, after the funeral for my teacher.

It’s like a switch has flicked in him. Oh G’day Jen great to hear from you love. How was the funeral?

I should be relieved he’s on the up again. But the past warns me that the highs are harder to deal with than the lows. The belligerence, the arrogance, the rudeness. That’s not him either.

I should be grateful that I can still pick up the phone and hear his voice.

I will be tomorrow. But right now I’m tired.

I say goodbye and stare out the window at the planes landing.

One grief begins to heal, a scar of gratitude marking a life well lived.

Another grief continues.