A Proper Grieving
By: Anetra Henry
Tags: Father And Daughter, Grief And Loss, Blackfather, Self Care

Me and my Dad

This year has been a difficult one, especially when you begin to take count of how many people we have lost to Covid-19, to tragedy, or to Father Time. So many were giants in the public eye; all were giants to those who loved them. When we were all shocked and saddened by the loss of Kobe Bryant, the hashtag, #girldad, began trending and it was truly inspiring to see fathers showing their bond with and love for their children, especially their daughters. It reminded me of what me and my sister shared with our Dad.

The third week of September has always been hard for me because it is the anniversary week of my father’s passing. All of the key details of each day creep back into my memory and demand attention and as I relive them. My body remembers every part of that week. The call that you were in the hospital. Again. The realization that this time, you were taken by ambulance because you were alone and still trying to be macho and called Auntie instead. The hope that I held for you to return home and maybe I needed to prepare to come for another extended visit to take care of you.

The last time I heard your voice and how it was distinctly different from every other conversation I’d ever had with you. Then came the late night call from Sis that you were doing really bad and together we needed to make a decision if you coded again. Searching for flights. Knowing that I needed to pack funeral clothes. Understanding that you’d been preparing me for this moment my entire life and that Sis was not as prepared. It was time to step into the strength that you and Mom always reminded you knew was in me.

The entire day I spent traveling from California to Georgia. Plane, shuttle, and then a Lyft to the hospital. I thought I was prepared for what I’d see. I was not. Thank God Auntie was there.

“Baby, talk to him and tell him what you want to tell him, but your Daddy is not in there,” as she pointed to the frail, dark chocolate frame that was hooked up to a tall rack of machines.

“Daddy, I am here now. You can go now. You don’t have to fight anymore,” is what I said to you with tears streaming down my face, touching your right hand that felt so foreign to me for the first time in my life. Your hands and your smile were my favorite of your physical characteristics. They were the epitome of light and warmth. Now, there was no smile and your hands were lukewarm — like your Spirit was half here and half over there.

But you didn’t go then. You hung on so your siblings could say goodbye and for me to convince Sis to come so we could all be together one last time. And we were together as you took your last draw of earthly air. As Sis began to grieve, I began to realize what this meant for you. No more pain. No more treatments. No more bad news to listen to or deliver from the doctors. I also began to realize what this meant for me. Now was not my time to grieve. It was my time to take care of Sis, Mom, and your siblings. My time would come.

And it does. Every year, this week I get to grieve you as I relive those moments like I didn’t because I was making space for everyone else to. I get to honor you with my tears and vivid memories. I grant myself permission to be vulnerable and fully feel what missing you, my first love, is like for me — your baby girl, the last button on Gabriel’s shirt.

I get to remember how your smile would be beam with pride just to spend time with me and doubly so when both of your girls were in your presence. You’d often sit in between us and hold both of our hands. I miss marveling at your meticulously groomed hands that were always the perfect temperature — never too hot, never too cold, never clammy — always soft and never ashy. Your fingers were long with beautiful, long nail beds and perfect cuticles. I miss those fingers and hands that always pinched my cheeks and squeezed my nose every time I saw you.

I get to hear your voice clearly. Most times since your transition, when I attempt to hear your voice it’s muffled. You sound far away or underwater. But never this week. I can hear your timber, pitch, and emotion like normal.

“A man who doesn’t take care of his hands and feet won’t take care of you,” is what you’d say as I’d sit and watch you do your self-care.

“If you ain’t already done did it, you’re going to do it one day, so we may as well talk about it,” is how you started my very clinical and shocking birds and the bees talk on one of our Daddy/Daughter dates.

“ And don’t go on dates you can’t afford to pay for,” is what you told me in part when you gave your logical explanation for why I couldn’t date until I was 16. You were telling me not to put myself in a situation where I felt like I “owed some little knucklehead boy” something.

“I ain’t raising no punk ass girls!” Your emotional response to finding out I had not stood up for myself or made the right decision. It was never your response to me crying or showing emotion.

“Me and your momma live where we want to live, now you go live where you want to live,” is what you told me when I was on the fence about leaving the comfort of close proximity to family, friends, and my beloved godson for my dream of living in California.

“I love you, Pook! Myyyy baby! The last button on Gabriel’s shirt,” is how you’d end every conversation I had with you, especially after reaching adulthood. You’d always remind me that no matter how old or “grown” I thought I’d gotten, I was always your baby.

“I’m tired, girls. I love you,” was the last thing you ever said to us.

This week, every year, I make time to sit and experience the extreme gratitude I have for you being my Father. I resist the urge to busy myself or reject grieving you — my flawed, fearless, protective patriarch. Instead, I welcome the memories of the lessons, laughter, pride, and pain that your legacy conjures in me. Your legacy is not just in your daughters, but in your nieces, nephews, siblings, and friends. It’s in Mom — your high school sweetheart, ex-wife, and the mother of your greatest joys, who still shares your story with us. So, as I make the best of an awkward and difficult year and mourn the loss of so many lives known and unknown, I will honor the need to have a proper grieving of you, Dad.