Shitcone
A little bit of happiness with a swirl of grief.
Growing up, my favourite summer treat was always a soft serve twist cone. A little bit of chocolate, a splash of vanilla … every lick was delicious and couldn’t help but put a smile on your face.
Life after loss is like living your life licking a twist cone for every meal. Except, you have one delightful flavour with a bunch of shit swirled in. The purely enjoyable experience that once existed is gone and now, if you want to taste any of the good, you have to let a bit of the bad creep in. There is no pallet cleanser in existence that will erase the lingering trauma and allow for a pure 100% joyful moment ever again.
Over time, I’m learning to live like this. And in hindsight, I’ve known for quite some time the cruel twists life can take and the bitter taste it leaves behind.
Fifteen years ago, I woke up in my first-year dorm room to my roommate poking me to let me know that my mom was there. Huh? What? ‘Girl, are you drunk?’...
No, she was correct. My mom was there at 7 o’clock in the morning. Not normal. I knew something was wrong immediately. At first, I expected maybe my Grandmother had died, but when I saw her face, I knew it was it was worse. Way worse.
My dad had suffered a major heart attack playing hockey the night before. He was 53 and he was dead. I quickly packed a bag and jumped in the back of my Aunt’s station wagon in between my brothers who were each holding one of my dad’s hockey gloves.
By nature, I’m a doer and a helper. My instincts prompt me to take action in times of turmoil and propel me forward. I remember getting home and helping to get information from the Coroner’s office and make arrangements. I quickly ran out to get an impulse tattoo (story for another day), buy some funeral clothing and as quickly as it started, the week was over. I will never forget that first night being home after he had died. Lying in bed listening the cries echo from the bedrooms of my siblings. All I could think in that moment was that I had to be strong, I would be the pillar that got us through.
When Lola died, the opposite happened. The weight of her loss broke me completely and I succumbed to the pain. I’ve spent my days since figuring out new ways to glue back together the pieces that remain into a new and cohesive shape, often accidentally shattering new pieces along the way. This process includes acknowledging her loss, and the losses that came before. I spend time being mindful of my grief instead of powering through and trying to be strong.
Through this, I’ve realized that I never properly grieved the death of my father. Of course, that loss has always been constant, raw and very present. But so early, I had the notion burned in my brain that I would be the one who got us through. I was independent. I could keep doing hard things. I didn’t need help. Looking back now, it would have been really fucking nice to have a dad the last 15 years. A dad who was present, who could come over to help build a bookcase, have brunch with, talk about life with. I think of those moments now, those daily routine events where I brushed off his absence in my day-to-day life in an effort to stay sane.
In the wake of death, people make every effort to try and fill the gaping hole you’ve been left with. I was fortunate to have an excellent support system, and I am grateful for that. But there is nothing that can ever make up for THAT person. The person you lost, there, with you, doing that exact thing they should be alive to do. Reflecting on this, it’s also very weird to think of all the things that never would have happened if I had never experienced a particular loss or a trauma. For example, if I hadn’t changed paths after my dad died, I probably would never have met Pete or bought my first home. It’s unreal how messed up that is. Life is a just a real fucking twat and I lick the shitcone she’s served me every single day. A little bit of happiness with a swirl of grief.
November 21st, 2005, I woke up to the news of a dead parent and was forever changed. Today, 15 years later, I woke up to the amazing news that we have 8 perfect little embryos going in the freezer. A number or quality we’ve never had after four rounds of IVF. Today, I’m going to embrace the shitcone. I’m going to take a big fat lick of it, blare some Van Morrison, cook myself some pancakes, and cry tears of joy and sadness.
Emily XO
