A childhood friend let me know, early this week, that her father had just died. It wasn’t unexpected and yet, for her, the surge of accompanying grief was.
She’s 58. I remember when my darling daddy left this earth a neighbour attempting to comfort me with ‘there is no good age to lose a parent’. I was 22. True that wasn’t a good age, but I feel sure 58 isn’t either.
My friend planned a couple of quiet days to herself before tackling the long drive home at the end of the week. It’s at least 7 hours. I could imagine myself taking off as soon as I heard the news. I always try to outrun anxiety.
Driving in panic, heartbeat as fast as the car can go. Not helping anyone.
You know the fight or flight when you basically run round in circles doing the headless chook?
Stop. breathe. respond don’t react.