Life Goes, Ron

I can’t fully explain the nature of my grief or how I process it. I love knowing a little about a lot of things, but grief I know deeply and certainly. It’s unavoidable. Inexplicable. When I wrote about Dad’s death shortly after it happened, I assumed the grief would stay large and heavy for years—overwhelming, looming, almost omnipotent. Maybe putting words to it shrank it back a bit. That’s as good an explanation as any I’ve found.

It was—and remains—a beautiful sadness.

When I need focus or escape, I read voraciously, so I tore through books on grief. I encountered the familiar metaphors: waves crashing over you alone at sea; a ball in a box with a pain button, huge at first and rattling constantly against the sides, gradually shrinking so it hits less often but never vanishes entirely; roller coasters, bottomless voids. They all rang partially true for me, but none fit exactly. Grief is as unique as a fingerprint.

Grief just is.

My own path through it felt uniquely mine, pieced together from varied things that helped. Time, first and foremost—yes, it really is on our side. In retrospect, one quiet practice stood out: grieve early, grieve often. My grief didn’t wait for Ron’s final breath or even the four days he spent in his deathbed. It began in September in the doctor’s office, watching his PET scan light up like a Christmas tree. I knew then he wouldn’t see another Christmas. I poured out so many tears during those months of watching him fade that I thought I might have none left when he actually died.

I was wrong. I cried a lot.

Having no regrets is a rare gift. No one gets through life with a perfect zero on the regrets scoreboard—like golf, the goal is to keep the number as low as possible. Ron and I worked hard at that, and it has been an immense source of comfort. We left nothing on the table as father and son. We chased wings with beers, saw car shows and airshows; we traveled, talked, did yardwork, hauled trash, watched ball games, painted houses, wired lamps. We did it all, and we did it well. We left nothing on the fields, the tables, or the bars. Pound for pound, I believe we built one of the best father-son relationships I’ve ever witnessed, and I’m deeply proud of that. Ironically, the depth that made the loss so devastating is also what made healing possible.

Low regrets.

I chose to embrace the grief rather than fight it. Early on, I pulled up an extra chair at my table of sadness, patted the seat, and invited the shadow to sit beside me. Resistance felt futile against its power, so I adopted a simple philosophy: can’t beat it—join it. Not battling conserved emotional energy and, I think, sped my recovery. I’ve touched on some of my philosophical leanings in past posts, but the phrase that carried me through was this: The obstacle is the path. Once I internalized that, something unlocked. I felt lighter. Freed.

There was nowhere to go but through.

A strong support network is a treasure beyond description, but I’ll try anyway. I’m extraordinarily lucky. Multiple circles of friends rallied around me. I’m sure more than one group text was titled “Keep Dale sane” or “Your turn to check on him.” Calls, texts, cards, flowers, gifts, messages poured in beyond anything I could have imagined—from grade-school classmates, high-school buddies, college friends, neighbors, Ron’s friends, people from every job I’ve held, even strangers. It was overwhelming in the best way. Humbling.

To every one of you: thank you.

Because my grief started early, so did the support—and I let myself lean into it fully. While men aren’t always known for emotional fluency, my guys showed up early, showed up often, and stayed late. Some of those debts I’ll never repay, but they’ll forgive them with interest, and I’ll be a better man for it.

The grieving isn’t finished, but it’s gentler now, and I’ll keep embracing it. Ron’s physical presence is part of my past, but his memory is woven into my future. I doubt a single day will pass, until my own end, when he doesn’t cross my mind.