I THOUGHT I KNEW HOW TO GRIEVE. THEN MY BROTHER DIED.

MICHAEL JAMES ROCHA: GRIEVING ISN’T LINEAR, AND DEALING WITH IT IS TURNING OUT TO BE A LIFELONG JOURNEY

Walking in nature became my savior during the first year of the pandemic, so when my brother died, I turned to walking to help heal a broken heart.

‘Find the joy.” In the middle of a concert last November, in the darkness of Petco Park while Elton John performed, a woman sitting in front of me turned around, stared into my eyes and smiled. Moments before, she was up on her feet, dancing the night away. But at that moment, she turned her gaze on me. Then she asked, “Are you OK?” I was caught off-guard by her question. But I guess she’d noticed something on my face. A kind of emptiness that signaled the lack of joy, I presumed.

“I’m fine,” I muttered, a bit annoyed by her presumptuous intrusion.

“I just want to tell you that whatever it is, it’ll be fine,” she said as she rummaged through her purse looking for something.

“Here,” she said, giving me a box of Cracker Jack. “You know how there’s a surprise in every Cracker Jack box? You expect it. Find the joy in life — expect it.”

She reached over and slowly rubbed my hands with hers and said: “Find the joy.”

Then in an instant, she was once again lost in the music, dancing — finding her joy.

How could I, as this stranger implored, find the joy when the last few months had been one of the most difficult periods of my life?

2022 was one of those years when happiness proved to be a tricky proposition. Don’t get me wrong: I had many moments that made me smile, but finding them was not easy.

Why? Mainly because I had to grieve once again. And after dealing with a loved one’s passing many times before, I thought I had this grieving thing down.

Accepting what is

When my younger brother died suddenly Feb. 10, 2022, I thought I knew what to expect. The waves of emotions — sorrow and happiness and everything in between — coming seemingly out of nowhere. The tears. The anxiety. The anger.

Perhaps it was the suddenness of it all, but this time, grieving was not like the others.

This one hit hard. It hurt. Physically. In my chest. In my bones. Everywhere.

When my mother died from cancer in 2005, it had been fairly expected — not a “what if” but more a “when.” When she passed, the grieving process felt unexpectedly easy. I’d been holding my breath for years as she fought cancer, so when she died, I finally exhaled. Days after, I focused on the memorial service — and that proved to be a blessing. A distraction.

Years later, in 2016, when my father died, it, too, was somewhat expected. Not as expected as my mother’s passing, but since I had been his caregiver, I knew his health was fragile. Emotionally and mentally, I’d been preparing myself for the inevitable. I lived and witnessed that fragility 24 hours a day, so when he informed me that “there was nothing else they could do,” I steeled myself for what was coming. Quickly, within hours of his death, I switched into eventplanner mode and kept busy by focusing on the funeral and welcoming the hordes of family flying in from all over.

Over the years I’d had firsthand experience with death, but nothing can really prepare you for it. My ultra-religious family — we grew up Catholic — went to church every Sunday, but spiritual discussions were more ritualistic rather than philosophical: novenas, the rosary and the like. So death and grieving? I was on my own.

Last year, when my brother died, I thought I’d gone through it enough that I knew the drill.

Grief, as it turns out, is a sneaky little bastard. And no matter how many times you’ve gone through it, it’s not all the same. And you know what? You can’t really control how you grieve either. And that’s OK.

That’s one of the biggest lessons I learned last year.

And here’s another: Grieving is not a straight line, from point A to point B. It has a life of its own. And that’s OK, too.

I learned, albeit slowly, how to accept what is. If I wake up sad, be sad. If I wake up angry, be angry. But then move forward. I found — and continue to still find — ways to crawl out of the sadness toward joy, ways to climb out of anger toward gratitude. I didn’t really have a choice. Well, I did, actually. It was either let grief sink me and push me deep into depression or find ways to heal.

I chose the road to healing. A bumpy road, but a road toward healing nonetheless.

Shifting the focus

Can you be a worrier and a positive person at the same time? That’s a crazy combination, but that’s where I found myself last year. Amid so much angst, I always tried to look for the positive. Gratitude was a big part of that process. I can’t even begin to count how many times that has helped me get out of a funk. It sounds like a cliché, something you’d find in a self-help book or hear from a grief counselor. I discovered this on my own: Shifting the focus away from the things that make you sad and putting your attention on the things you’re thankful for is one way to grieve. It might not work for everyone, but it helped me.

When I wrote the eulogy for my mother’s funeral, I first struggled to find the words — any words — to put down on paper. Then I shifted my focus on the things my mother did that made me happy — the things I was grateful for. Like the time she helped me move down to San Diego from Los Angeles. The phone calls she made on my birthday — she was always the first phone call. The Filipino chicken curry she loved to cook on Sundays. The trips to Ross Dress for Less on Tuesdays for senior discounts. That’s where she bought the last Christmas present she gave me in 2004 — a rainbow-colored candle. It still sits in a cabinet in our hallway.

I focused on all of that — and how thankful I was that she did all that. I centered the eulogy on how those expressions of love were the things I can focus on whenever I felt sad or angry or whatever emotion decided to rear its ugly head.

Days after my brother’s passing, I tried to keep myself occupied by going through boxes of family photos to scan for a memorial booklet. In one of the boxes, I stumbled upon some of his high school pictures. He was smiling in every photo — always the life of the party. I wanted to capture that joyful part of his life. But how? A month after his death, I came up with the idea of starting a scholarship in his name at our old high school, Alhambra High School. A quick phone call made that a reality, and on May 15, I presented scholarship checks to two deserving students.

Instead of focusing on the tragedy of his death, I made a conscious effort to focus on the good in his life — and how giving back to something that meant so much to him could result in more good.

It’s a journey

After the scholarship ceremony, I thought I was finally back to my old self. Wrong. A few weeks later, my grief manifested itself in ways I’d never seen before. I began having major panic attacks. I couldn’t figure out the trigger, since most of the time, the anxiety just came out of nowhere. It often surprised me, and it was crippling.

I tried focusing on gratitude, but it didn’t really work. Not well, anyway. I had to find another way to deal with grief-induced anxiety. I found it in nature. At the beginning of the pandemic, I started to feel extreme anxiety. I started walking in the morning, and quickly I discovered how being outside, breathing fresh air and getting sunshine, helped calm me down. Soon, I was walking three times a day.

Walking in nature became my savior during the first year of the pandemic, so when my brother died, I turned to walking to help heal a broken heart. In 2020, during much of the lockdown, I kept track of how many steps I took each day, more as a badge of honor. Some baked banana bread, I walked.

These days, I couldn’t care less how many steps I walk every day. I walk to help myself heal. Today, 367 days after my brother died, I’m still grieving. I’ve learned that grieving doesn’t really have an ending.

It’s a process. A journey. Some days will be great, others will be downright awful. But that’s OK, because somewhere along the way, if you look hard enough, you’ll find the joy.

I did.

If you’re grieving and struggling to find the joy, know you’re not alone. Call the 988 hotline to seek professional help. And if you’re the stranger who reached out to me in November, thank you.

Rocha, formerly the arts and entertainment editor for The San Diego Union-tribune, is now the company’s digital creative director.

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