Play the hand you’re dealt

Author Judith Cuffe suffered a double loss when her dad died after a long illness and her brother died suddenly just six weeks later. In this column, she explores grief in all its facets

There are some aspects of loss that you won’t understand until you encounter it. Like childbirth, your body kicks into a strange coping mechanism. With your mind not ready to go there, it affects you almost entirely physically at first. When my father passed away, it hit like a bullet. No matter how deeply I’d breathe, it was never enough. Heavy limbed, tense, poor sleep, no appetite, but worse, I’d suffer brief moments of amnesia. When I’d remember he was gone, it would jolt me like someone plunging a hairdryer into my bath water.

The veil had begun to lift when my brother John unexpectedly died six weeks later. This time, it hit like a missile, bringing me back to square one. Flabbergasted by what a book editor might call a ‘step too far’ if I tried to write it as a plot twist, on this occasion, I wholly agreed.

I futilely bargained with the wind in the following days to bring my brother back. The universe could hang on to Dad with our compliments, and I’d throw in whatever was needed to cut a deal. I promised to never buy another stitch of clothing. I’d compost... properly, give up driving, aerosol deodorant, anything. Take me instead, I pleaded, ready to sacrifice myself to save those I loved.

When it didn’t work, I did the only thing I could to survive because I couldn’t bear both of them being gone. Like an older, less cool Miley Cyrus, I rewrote the lyrics of Brian Kennedy’s Message In The Box, put Dad’s grief into a box, put the box into the car and drove the car off a proverbial cliff.

In real terms, I went to visit Dad’s grave, cried until nothing remained and bid him an abrupt farewell. I secretly hoped he’d somehow answer or send me a sign that he understood. If there was ever a time for an avalanche of white feathers, it was now.

Dad didn’t answer, and I felt terrible. Deep down I knew that it would never be as easy as placing poor Dad in yet another box. Six weeks simply wasn’t enough to ‘get over’ the loss of a parent.

Speaking about it online, I highlighted my ‘grief guilt’ at sweeping one loss away to replace it with another. Plenty who’d lost a parent responded not to beat myself up, and that I could revisit feelings about my father when I was ready. Something to look forward to, I thought cynically.

Indeed, there could be no one else out there facing a double whammy of torture in such a tight timeframe. In a moment of rage, I wanted to scream, ‘I’ll see you a parent, and I’ll raise you a brother.’

Grief is a lonely experience, but I’ve learned that there is always someone better and worse off than you. Even in your darkest hour, someone will trump you. I was swiftly brought back down to earth by a message that began, ‘I literally had this conversation about putting my father’s loss to one side...’ Mother-of-two Marie went on to reveal how the week after her father died, she’d been diagnosed with cancer and was now undergoing chemotherapy, experiencing similar guilt for not having a moment to grieve for her dad. Goosebumps ran through me. Though our situations aren’t identical, we’d both been struck hard in quick succession.

I often question if Dad was still here, how he’d have taken John’s death. Marie wondered the same about her father with her cancer diagnosis. We concluded that we were glad neither father was around because if they weren’t already gone, it would have killed them.

‘I didn’t know your dad,’ I typed. ‘But I can guarantee he’d tell you to focus on yourself, do whatever it takes to get through this and be strong.’ As I wrote, it struck me that it was precisely what my own father would tell me if he could. It felt like a message to us both.

Although we’ve never met in person, I often consider Marie when things feel too much. Like me, she is on a journey, and by accident or design, I can’t be sure, our paths collided.

Marie told me that her dad used to buy the paper each Saturday to give her You magazine, so I asked if I could give him a mention within its pages. So here it is, from his team of girls: wonderful Jack Lyons, adored father, is sorely missed and eternally loved.

Grief certainly isn’t a competition, but if it is a game, it’s one you begin at your weakest before gradually growing stronger. Despite being dealt a disastrous hand, it’s up to you to play the hell out of the cards you are holding.

Until you get the hang of it, it’s okay to go all-in, hold, bluff or even fold. Sometimes it takes laying your cards on the table to realise you’re not playing alone and that, in time, a wise player with a weak hand can still win the game.

So, keep playing. Do what you must until your luck turns because this too shall pass.