Landscapes of Remembrance and Return

Navigating the journey of grief one year after losing my dad

Image from Ajijic near Lake Chapala, from the last trip to see my dad.

Maybe I should have waited until I was off the plane to turn on my phone. Not rushed to turn it on when the wheels touched down in Guadalajara, while I remained involuntarily glued in my middle seat with no where to go, forced to semi-contain panic-breaths and sobs in a too-close vicinity to strangers.

But it doesn’t matter if I had read the text saying “your beloved father is gone” then or ten minutes later, as I was exiting into the chaos of the airport. Either way, I would still have been panic-breathing and sobbing in front of strangers, feeling the air close in on me, as I walked through customs, found a taxi, and endured the ride to a hospital chapel in a foreign country. Those minutes in the plane, on the jetway, will be forever etched into my memory.

It’s been one year and one week since that day. For the first anniversary of my father’s death I was back in Mexico, and leading up to it, those defining moments when my world changed forever played over and over in my mind. I was worried about how I would feel repeating the journey to the conference that one year ago I had been in route to (but never made it). There was a moment when I thought I might not make it this year, either.

As soon as I stepped off the plane, I began to get alternating calls from my mom and from her nursing home. The connection wasn’t stable, so for several minutes walking through the airport, my mind went through all the possible scenarios - my mom is sick, maybe she is dying, I will need to once again scramble to get home in distress; she had become aggressive with staff; maybe Medicaid would not pay for her care any longer…

When I finally reached my mom and could hear her, she told me that my brother had gone missing. Immediately skeptical, but concerned and confused, I said ”Explain it to me mom, what happened?”

She struggled to find the words. “Well, so I’m living in this place now…”

”I know where you live, mom” - I cut her off. Her insistence in telling me about where she lives, even though I have been the one to organize it from beginning to end and of course where I visit her, still rattles me every time.

“Well someone came in here and woke me up and they had brought Leif to visit… “ she struggled to find words and piece together a coherent story. “Anyway now no one knows where he is, he has gone missing.”

I knew this was likely (unintentionally) fabricated, but even with dementia, she had never done something quite like this before. And the nursing home staff had been calling me as well. As Leif’s guardian, I would have been the first one called if he had actually gone missing. Nevertheless, I promised my mom I would check in with his care team for peace of mind. Sure enough, a few minutes later, it was confirmed that Leif was in his apartment, eating dinner with staff. I called my mom back to reassure her, and she calmed down, apologetic for creating a “kerfuffle.”

I was once again reminded that the care sandwich life follows you everywhere, and knows no boundaries.

The Latin American Impact Investing Forum in Merida, Mexico.

The actual anniversary of my father’s death was the busiest day of the trip. That morning I was on a panel discussing women’s health investing followed by a full day of conference sessions. For much of the day, the anniversary lingered in the back of my mind, but I had conveniently compartmentalized the emotion in order to focus on public speaking and networking. I ignored the pings of texts from sympathetic friends checking in.

Toward the middle of the day the feelings were creeping in, as I looked around and thought about being in the country that my dad loved so much, and also where he spent his last days.

I was fortunate to be surrounded by several close colleagues who are now dear friends, including one who also lost her dad many years ago. She checked in on me throughout the day, and gently offered to take some time out with me before our evening event to remember my dad and perhaps partake in a small ritual to commemorate the day. I liked the idea, but felt reluctant. If I let myself go there, if I opened that box where all my feelings were neatly tucked away, what would happen? How would I function in this professional environment if I allowed this personal emotional experience out into the open?

But also: what would happen if I didn’t allow it out? How would I feel if I didn’t take the time out to commemorate the day and connect with my dad?

We had a few minutes before needing to leave for the party to celebrate the closing of another chapter - the wrap up of the foundation I’ve worked with for more than half of its 20 years of existence, which in itself was emotional. My friend came to my room and we listened to Buena Vista Social Club, which always reminds me of my dad, as we talked about him and the legacy and memories and love I can hold on to. She led me through a guided visualization to feel his presence, and with that I finally let go and the tears flowed. I’m so thankful that we had that moment, I don’t think the day would have felt complete without it.

My dad and my brother Leif in 2023.

Honestly it’s not always the “big days” that hit me the hardest. It’s the times I catch a glimpse of my profile in the mirror or a photo and see my dad’s nose; when I see my brother and recognize my dad’s grin, or when pictures of him pop up in my “on this day” photo feeds.

When I hear has hearty laugh in my mind, and imagine his giant grin. When I recall him enjoying a meal with gusto and our jokes about his lifelong membership in the Clean Plate Club. When I see windsurfers and sailboats and recall our days camping at the Gorge.

I want to tell my dad that my brother Leif is doing well, but that it’s hard being the only family member left that he can rely on, who checks in and looks out for him. But we’re alright, and we’re making it work.

I want to have a conversation with the version of my dad from a decade ago about the absolute madness going on in the United States right now. He wouldn’t lie to me and say it’s going to be ok, but his presence and thoughts would be comforting and make me feel like somehow it will be.

I want to tell him about my work and how much my kids loved Costa Rica, and reminisce about those first trips to Latin America that he took me on, and how I hope my kids’ experiences are as powerful for them.

In some ways I’m still trying to grasp that my dad is really gone. I still haven’t brought myself to listen to the interview I recorded with him the last time we saw each other. But I will, and for now, I’m comforted just know it is there when I need it.

Have you gotten through a first anniversary of losing a loved one? What did you do to honor their memory, and your emotions?