By Amanda //
As a child, my parents were my entire world. To me, they were omnipotent, almost like God; they could do everything, live forever and be with me always. But one night, when we watched television together as usual, I noticed the gradual greying of their hairs. I began noticing their earlier bedtimes, them walking slower, having more complaints about body aches and ailments, and even the occasional forgetfulness. I remember wondering to myself – where did the time go? How have they aged?
As life goes, death comes with old age, and grief soon follows.
We often think of grief as the period of mourning after we lose a loved one. But grief is a natural response to any sort of loss — the loss of a relationship, a job, a pet, or a way of life.
Grief is painful and, unfortunately, a common experience. Yet, it is part of life, a universal human experience.
In November last year, the doctor told the family my dad had six months to live. Upon hearing the news, a wave of sadness, shock and disbelief came over me, leaving me speechless (which was rare because I have opinions about everything.) And being in a typical Asian family, death was seen as a taboo topic, we talked about everything at dinner except for that one thing – that our dad would die soon should he adamantly refuse treatment, choosing death over dialysis as an “easy way out”.
In the course of my counselling studies, I came across the term “anticipatory grief”, which Aldrich defines as “any grief occurring before a loss, as distinguished from the grief which occurs at or after a loss”. The term “anticipatory grief” was coined by Lindermann who noticed how the wives of soldiers returning from World War II behaved in ways as if their returned loved one had died. He hypothesised that this grieving behaviour was a form of self-preservation; pre-empting a sorrow that would result from their husbands’ deaths.
I found myself dealing with this intense and complex concept of maintaining a delicate balance between the conflicting demands of simultaneously holding on to, letting go of, and drawing closer to my father. The pain was ongoing and cumulative rather than a specific impact.
I remember rationalising that since I was given “time” to prepare for the inevitable, I could work it all out and it’ll all be okay. I could spend more time with him, say my goodbyes and mentally prepare for any life adjustments, then perhaps it may be less grievous and disabling when the time comes, right? However, similar to post-grief, the intensity of anticipatory grief is comparably acute. Each day and night, I grieved, prayed and coped with no definite “end date” to my dad’s impending death. Furthermore, I felt the pressure to mirror his courage on the outside, even though I was falling apart within.
Four months after the doctor had told us about the six-month prognosis, my father, who had been stubbornly opposed to treatment, surprised us by telling the doctor that he would like to proceed with dialysis. Honestly, those months of persuading him to get treatment had left multiple argument wounds in our daughter-father relationship, and then suddenly, this sudden change of heart? I was confused but mostly happy and relieved. I thanked God for this timely miracle because soon after he made the decision to get treated, my dad’s kidneys rapidly deteriorated which led to other complications that caused my dad to crash. He was admitted to hospital in critical condition and had to be on full oxygen supply. My dad was on the brink, fighting for his life. My mom never once left his side despite how exhausted she was. We were shown a scan that showed water in his lungs. I remembered a doctor saying: “I can see fear in your eyes, but trust that we’ll do our best.”
I was overwhelmed, had intrusive and ruminative thoughts, scared and sad, and all these emotions manifested as guilt, anger, tearfulness, denial, exhaustion and social withdrawal. We felt so helpless and anxious, constantly murmuring “please make it”. Anticipatory grief often leaves room for the hope that this loss may actually not happen.
Seeing my dad undergo several minor and major surgeries, and countless blood draws for never-ending tests pained and wearied us emotionally. But, the silver lining for me was seeing our family coming together more than ever. Despite our different ways of coping and attachment styles, we had one another. And with the presence and support of relatives and friends, we all held on to hope together.
My dad was finally discharged after two months and it continued to be an emotional rollercoaster. Though not entirely out of the woods, we were just glad to have him back home; that we can have him around a little longer. Some normalcy, finally.
With journaling as my way of self-care, I penned down feelings that were difficult to verbalise. The posts where I wrote, “This could be my last Christmas with him,” and “Things I want to do with my dad” still stand out to me today. In hindsight, that particular season of grief made me grow more resilient, cultivate better coping mechanisms, and learn to acknowledge my support system and the community I took for granted.
As I write this article, I look at a framed family photo taken just a few months ago with my dad in the picture.
This journey with Dad, with anticipatory grief, brought a new level of clarity to my life – that it is no longer as important to have what I love, but to love what I have.
I look forward to new memories and spending another Christmas with my father.
In her 30s, Amanda decided to embrace change and venture into mental healthcare, aligning with her values. She has a genuine interest in the human experience amid challenges and relishes understanding diverse stories and complexities through personal interactions and cinema.
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Illustration by Ethan.