Grieving a parent’s death rarely looks the way you expect, and for writer Katie Grant, it began on a Monday morning with a phone call and an unlikely decision: take her daughter to the cinema. Her father, aged 87, had died earlier that day after eight months of illness that started with heart stent surgery and ended with his major organs failing.
Grant’s uncle delivered the news with the words, ‘Now I have to tell you that your father crossed over earlier this morning.’ Her daughter was home that day with a badly injured foot, so school was already cancelled. Rather than sit alone with her grief, Grant chose a dark room, a bucket of popcorn with extra butter, and a bag of Sour Patch Kids. The cinema, she wrote, was exactly what she needed.
What Grieving a Parent’s Death Actually Does to You
What followed in the weeks after surprised Grant. She described being knocked out flat, lying on the couch or in bed when she should have been packing boxes, having bought and sold a house in the same period. Her memory worsened. Simple tasks, including sending a quick email, felt impossibly heavy.
This experience has a name. Research cited by The Supportive Care finds that ‘grief brain’, the cognitive impairment that accompanies bereavement, affects up to 85% of bereaved individuals. Documented effects include short-term memory lapses, difficulty concentrating, problems with decision-making, and reduced executive functioning. Neuropsychological testing has shown these effects can temporarily reduce functional IQ by 10 to 15 points.
The physical toll is just as real. The American Brain Foundation notes that grief can produce fatigue, heightened anxiety, restlessness, headaches, heart palpitations, nausea, and changes in appetite. Grant’s grief group, which she joined in the weeks after her father’s death, confirmed the same list: fatigue, scattered thinking, lack of sleep, lashing out, and an inability to complete tasks she had previously managed without effort.
Her fuse shortened. She felt resentful that family life kept demanding her attention when she could barely manage her own. The one thing she could eat was Saag Paneer, an Indian dish of spinach and cheese, which she renamed ‘Sad Paneer.’
A Grief Without the Usual Anchors
Grant describes her grieving as particularly disorienting because she has no immediate family to share memories with. Her mother has dementia and does not remember her father. Her brother’s own mental health difficulties meant he did not have the same relationship with their father that Grant did. She is also caring for her brother from a distance, while parenting her 9-year-old daughter and settling into a new home.
She has found comfort in unexpected places. The week her father died, she kept hearing his obscure favourite songs on the car radio and in cafes. She found herself saying phrases she had not thought about in decades: ‘Pig for sale!’ from when he would carry her on his shoulder; ‘Shake it, don’t break it!’ when dancing; ‘Are you cruisin’ for a bruisin’?’ when teasing each other. His voice, she wrote, has started coming out of her own mouth.
The most powerful moment came through a framed photograph. Her uncle sent her a picture she had once given her father, showing the two of them dancing at her wedding 18 years ago. She had had the frame engraved with the name of the song her father chose for that dance. Lee Ann Womack‘s ‘I Hope You Dance’ carries the lyric: ‘when you get the choice to sit it out or dance, I hope you dance.’ Seeing it again undid her. ‘It was as if he were sending me a message in the most poignant way,’ she wrote. Lee Ann Womack recorded the song, which has become one of the most recognised tributes to a parent’s hope for their child.
Grant is also looking for a way to keep her father physically close. She hopes to have a piece of jewellery made with some of his ashes incorporated into it. Close By Me Jewelry, one company working in this field, uses a patented process to solidify and bond cremation ashes to pieces cast in sterling silver or 14-karat gold, with only a small portion of ashes needed for each piece.
Grant’s essay closes not with resolution but with resolve. She has not yet had the time or space for what she calls ‘a grieving process like I think I should.’ But she made a promise: ‘I will always dance, Poppa.’ That, for now, seems to be enough to move forward on.