Good news first. And only.

Dad aced the surgery. Even the surgeon said he was thrilled and I’m thinking that means a lot. Any true craftsman is usually the last to beam boldly at his own workmanship. Dad was walking and talking this morning, less than 24 hours after the main event. The good doctor said he didn’t even expect him to be able to talk.

If all goes well today, he may even be able to go home tomorrow. They weren’t kidding with signs on the pre-op floor exclaiming “Rapid in/out.”

And I couldn’t be happier. It’s home where he needs to be. Where he can be wrapped in cozy and surrounded by family funny. No blood pressure cuff. No iv drip.

Family morale is high today, yet skipping beneath the surface is a despair unmatched by anything I have ever felt. I can’t speak for my siblings or Mom, but if I had to guess, this trumps all of their past despairs as well.

Like a dog chasing it’s tail, it seems This Grief has no end. I’m determined to embrace every moment of this time and that means both the good and the bad. I see the pain seared on my kid’s faces, the tears in my sibling’s and parent’s eyes, and feel like I’m watching a sad, sad movie. Make no mistake, it’s not all the time. And as with every great movie, we have many joyful moments.

It’s as if Grief knows we need relief. Greif knows how much we can take. And like it or not, Grief sneaks up and visits us in the most unlikely spots and with zero warning.

I’m finding This Grief thing very odd.

I can easily say, I walk with confidence, for the most part (ha!). I generally know what I’m doing, where I’m going, and what’s up next. But these days, I’ve found my predictable stride skips a beat and sometimes I’m bowled over.

The day before yesterday I had to make a quick run to the airfield where Dad keeps his plane. All I needed to do was talk to John The Mechanic to tell him that the guy interested in buying my dad’s plane wanted to call him and talk shop about its insides. John has been a large part of my dad’s life as a meticulously dependable mechanic that I’m deeply grateful for. There probably isn’t a nut, bolt or screw on that plane that John doesn’t know personally.

Easy enough.

I knocked on the door, caught a glance of John (whom I’ve never met) and immediately as I crossed the threshold, my words were fighting to form. As soon as I got to the part of saying “I’m Bob’s daughter,” I crumbled. Really crumbled.

John couldn’t have been kinder. He didn’t even know half the story I was about to tell him, but he knew enough. He quickly comforted me with understanding words and offered me a chair.

I was able to snap back and get past The Grief and in doing, found great peace in the care that John shared. My mom says she cries when people are nice to her. I feel that too. Stunning to me is the enormity and power of the unseen. Physiological changes take over our bodies. Shortness of breath and streaming tears taunt us for control. In times of Joy, reactions are welcomed and celebrated. In Greif, they are foreign and uncomfortable.

I tell myself, and our kids, that Grief will grab us when we least expect it. Embrace that, I say. It’s not anything to be feared, ignored or embarrassed by. It’s nothing but love. Love wrapped in memories of Grandpa. Never ending. Far reaching. And forever.