The day my father died was Monday, early in the morning. Normally, I would have taken my daughter to school, but she was home with a badly injured foot. My uncle called and said, “Now I have to tell you that your father crossed the country this morning.”

This was a call I had been waiting for. Dad had been sick, in and out of the hospital, for eight months. It started with a simple heart stent surgery and progressed to closure of his major organs. He was 87 years old.

I was very close to my dad. Probably closer than most fathers and daughters. And even though we lived on opposite sides of the country, we talked a lot and texted frequently, and I always felt the strength of our connection, whether close or far.

I took my daughter to the movies

After receiving the news, all I wanted to do was sit in a dark room and eat emotionally. But I had to be a father; my daughter was at home. So I said, “Let’s go to the movies.” Dark room? Check. Emotionally eating popcorn with extra butter and a whole bag of Sour Patch Kids? Check. Plus, I was able to sit quietly and process while my daughter enjoyed a movie.

It seemed like the perfect solution. Even my dad would have been happy. He was quite a gregarious trickster who loved to celebrate life and make noise. To some, a movie might have seemed disrespectful or a cop-out, but for me it got me through that horrible day.

It’s been three months since my dad passed away, and during that time my husband and I bought and sold a house, moved across town, continued raising our 9-year-old son, and I took care of my special needs brother from afar. Needless to say, that’s a lot and I feel like I haven’t grieved yet. I’ve shed tears, yes, and taken pictures to honor the photographer in him, but I honestly haven’t had the time to engage in a grieving process like I think I should.

the pain tires me

I also had no idea how physically tired grieving can cause you. I fell unconscious, lying on the couch or in bed, when I should have been packing my bags. I become even more forgetful than my menopausal brain already allows and couldn’t deal with the simplest tasks. It felt daunting. I couldn’t even muster the energy to send a quick email.

I have since joined a grief group and learned that, in fact, grief commonly includes fatigue, scattered brain, lack of sleep, aggression, confusion, the inability to do things as well as you used to, and lack of appetite. My fuse definitely shorted. I felt resentful that I had to continue helping my family do things, but I couldn’t complete my own. And the only thing I could eat was Saag Paneer, an Indian spinach and cheese dish, which I have since called “Sad Paneer.”

I find myself saying things that he would say

I’m dying to have a piece of my dad nearby and I hope to get a piece of jewelry made with some of his ashes incorporated. It may sound macabre, but it would comfort me.

This first brush with greater pain is not what I expected. My grief feels strange because I don’t have any immediate family to reminisce with: my mom has dementia and doesn’t remember, and my brother has mental health issues and didn’t have a relationship with Dad similar to the one I had.

I wondered how my dad would visit me from beyond. Would it appear in rainbows, butterflies, or dimes on the ground? The answer took me by surprise: it has come to me in the form of a song. That week he died, I heard many of his favorite obscure songs pop up in the car or at a coffee shop.

He has also visited me through my own mouth: I find myself saying things that he always used to say that only I know and that I haven’t thought about in decades. Things like “Pig for sale!” when he played and carried me around the house on his shoulder, or “Shake it, don’t break it!” when you dance, or “Are you looking for a bruise?” when they make fun of each other.

In fact, my dad chose the song we danced to at my wedding 18 years ago. My uncle sent me a framed photograph that he had given to my dad from that moment. It shows us dancing, smiles overflowing. I had had the song he chose, “I Hope You Dance,” engraved on the frame, and when I saw it, I lost it. It was like he was sending me a message in the most touching way. I will always dance, dad, I promise.