You’re Grieving? I Get It, and Please Don’t Apologise

When you lose your fifty year old dad at the far-too-young age of twenty, it puts you somewhere near the top of the grief-stricken heap with people. Yes obviously, there are worse losses, but you’re definitely up there.

In the summer between my first and second years at university, I went trekking round the then fairly unspoilt Greek islands with a small group of friends. Six weeks of back-backing, then straight back to Uni and a trip home planned for mid-way through the term. I’d spent most of the summer cleaning in a bread factory followed by bar-tending at night, living at home the whole time, so it didn’t seem too uncaring not to go straight home on my return to England.

I obviously had some pangs though, as I decided to make the cross-country trip home for the few days I had till term started. My parents were just back from their first ever kid-free holiday; two weeks in what was then Yugoslavia, now Croatia. A relaxed, golden couple, they’d also had their first formal portrait photo taken — just the two of them. My dad was dead before the proofs were even back from the photographer.

When you’re twenty, most of your friends have yet to experience a death in the family, let alone the sudden, shocking death of a fifty year old father of three. Most of them don’t know what to do, they’re not sure how to behave around you. And when your maternal granddad dies a month later, they really struggle. Having taken time off when my dad died, I…