When one parent dies, our mind wanders over to the other, remaining parent, wondering when it will be their turn, too. We wonder what will happen to them. Can we keep them safe? When will we lose them? Will it be sudden? What are you supposed to do when you are still grieving the loss of one parent and life threatens to take away the other? Let’s talk about what grief does when you have one parent left.

We already know the next round of grief is coming for us. We are still holding heavy grief for the first parent we lost and begin to look ahead anticipating when it will strike again. We flinch because we know what that blow feels like. Often times we begin grieving while the other parent is still alive.

For some people this gentle nudge might actually be helpful. Losing one parent can encourage us to reach out to the other and to nourish that relationship. We can grow closer to the other parent. We can remember to tell them we love them. We can make the most of our time.

But family can be complicated, and sometimes a response to grief is not always to reach out with love to the other parent. Sometimes we retreat, in the hopes of avoiding what we don’t want to face again. Sometimes the other parent makes it difficult. Sometimes we make it difficult on ourselves.

Recently my father had a stroke. I’ve been avoiding my relationship with him ever since my mom died three years ago. I have procrastinated thinking about him and let several days or weeks slip by between phone calls and texts because it is easier than bearing the weight of our long history. We always think we have so much time ahead of us. Sometimes I try to make the most of our time, but in other ways I resist, push away that future grief, and refuse to see it. I feel guilty in advance and begin a stockpile of regrets, storing them away for someday like the good china.

He and I have unpacked baggage from my traumatic childhood. There is unfinished business that I’ve been ignoring. He has not made much effort to be part of my life. I have not reached out much either, aside from emails and texts on occasion. Now he is having trouble speaking, and words he doesn’t mean to say jump in front of the word he’s trying to find.

“What’s your name?” the doctor asked him. Dad sat thinking, trying to sound out his name with dry lips.

“Explosion!” he said, looking surprised and bewildered.

I’m not sure if we’ll ever have a full conversation again. Cue the flood of guilt and regret that feels so familiar.

Sometimes letting him in feels familiar and good, because he is my only living parent. He’s one of the few people who has known me my whole life. But letting him in can hurt and stir up painful memories. Yes, family can certainly be complicated.

It’s probably because I’ve experienced the death of my mother and am more aware of these comments now, but I often hear remarks such as “Ugh. It’s my mom calling again. Why?!” or “I’m so annoyed with my dad right now!”. I haven’t yet told a stranger in public something like, “Well, you’re going to lose them someday, and it’s going to hurt, so you’d better take advantage of your time now!”, but I really want to. Because they are going to lose them, and it’s almost definitely going to hurt.

The trouble is that even if I could tell someone how much it’s going to hurt someday and how much they should appreciate their parent now, almost for certain they won’t get it. Almost always you can’t understand deep grief and loss until it happens to you. Sure, we can try to empathize as much as possible, but you just don’t get it until it’s happened to you.

And then, sadly, you are looking back. It is with hindsight that you recognize what you’ve lost. It so painfully dawns on you. Oh, this is grief. This is what dying truly means. This is loss. And you so desperately want to go back and do anything that you can to mitigate the pain of that loss and to say all the things you should have said. Inevitably this makes the grief feel deeper and worse.

That grief is coming. That day when we will lose the other parent and officially have no parents left alive. We know that day will come, when all we have left are photographs, memories, and stories with fuzzy details we won’t ever be able to fill in. Eventually there may be a time when the sound of their voice starts to fade from our minds. We can try to fight it or we can try to ignore it, but it is coming.

My dad has lost brain function and is hospitalized. I had planned to reconcile my feelings about him someday, and I need to get a move on. Someday came faster than I thought it would.

And so what do we do when something happens to our other, remaining parent? What can we do besides put one reluctant foot in front of the other? We make arrangements. We ask questions about medical procedures and test results. We start keeping track of their bills, bank accounts, and online passwords.

We might scroll mindlessly on Amazon, searching for the perfect heated blanket, the best large print puzzle book, or the right pillow to keep them comfortable.

We might listen to our parents openly express doubt, worry, or fear about their prognosis–things they never would have said to us before, when the boundaries separating the roles of parent and child were not so blurred.

We add the weight of adulthood to the invisible packs we carry. The weight of love, responsibility, grief, and worry. The weight of wanting things to be easier, like they were before, or simply just not what they are now, which might be unbearable to go through again. We close our eyes, put on our adults pants, and step forward again, when we’d much rather stamp our foot like a child and say NO.

The universe signed us up for a crash course in love, loss, patience, and resilience. Grief changes how we interact with others. It changes how we see the world. And maybe that is the point, the positive outcome and also the unfortunate byproduct.

The curse of grief is loving more. Loving more and hurting more. You see with different eyes, looking out at the world through a veil of grief, as if you are the only one wearing polarized sunglasses, telling people around you the sky is actually golden, not blue. Through your lens you can value people more in the small moments. You make eye contact instead of looking away. You know when someone needs a hand on their shoulder. You make each day count, even the gray and boring, uneventful ones.

We just keep going on. That is all we can do. Keep going. I am walking with you.