The grief itself

Eleven months in, I cried at a Caltex on the M1 because the song on the radio was the one my father whistled while he shaved. I'd been fine that morning. I was fine again by the time I'd refilled the tank. Forty seconds, no warning.

Month one: shock, numbness, weird hyperactivity

The first month doesn't feel like grief. It feels like an altered state.

Common symptoms:

• A sense that the world is slightly behind glass.
• Forgetting words mid-sentence.
• Sudden bursts of energy at midnight.
• An ability to laugh at funerals and bawl at advertisements.

The mistake: trying to be productive in this window. Big decisions made in month one have a 50/50 chance of being regretted.

Month two and three: the wave

The wave hits at no particular time. You're at the supermarket. A song, a smell, the way a man on the train looks like your father from behind, and suddenly you're crying in public for ninety seconds.

What helps:

• Don't fight it in the moment. Pull the car over.
• Pre-position. Sunglasses in the car. A handkerchief in the desk drawer.
• Talk about it once. With one person.
• Don't medicate it pre-emptively.

Month four to six: the bargain

You start trying to bargain with it. Maybe if I keep the watch on me. Maybe if I write down everything I remember.

The dread arrives: the dread of forgetting their voice.

Two practical things help:

• Save the voicemail. Email it to yourself.
• Write it down once. A page or two. The five things you don't want to forget.

Month six to twelve: gas-station crying

The waves keep coming, less often, in stranger places. The petrol station. The 4pm Tuesday at work.

This is also when you start to laugh again, properly. The first real laugh after a parent dies arrives in this window. Some men feel guilty about it. Don't.

What you'll notice:

• You stop telling people.
• You'll find yourself reaching for the phone to call them and stopping halfway.
• Their birthday and the death anniversary loom larger than you expect.

Month twelve onward: the new normal

The first anniversary is a wall. Many men report a noticeable shift either side of it.

The shape of year two:

• The waves are 60-80 percent less frequent.
• The dread of forgetting their voice softens.
• You start to be able to talk about them without the same charge.
• New things continue to ambush you.

The line: when grief becomes depression

Grief is loud, episodic, and reactive. Depression is quiet, persistent, and unmoored.

Signs you've crossed a line and need a GP:

• Sleep that doesn't normalise after eight weeks.
• Loss of pleasure in things you used to enjoy, sustained four weeks.
• Inability to concentrate at work that doesn't lift after two months.
• Daily drinking that has increased and not come back down.
• Weight change of 5kg+ without intent.
• Thoughts that the world would be easier without you.
• Six months in, you still cannot say their name aloud without breaking down.

Any one of these for more than four weeks: GP visit.

What helps over the long arc

• Walking. Daily if you can.
• Sleep. Phone out of the bedroom.
• One man you can talk to.
• Marking the dates.
• Continuing the small habits that used to be theirs.

The thing nobody told me

Grief is not a tunnel. There's no other side. There's just a slowly changing landscape on the same long road.

What you carry doesn't become smaller. You become bigger around it.

Ride the wave. Save the voicemail. Walk it out.

Further watching

• We don't "move on" from grief. We move forward with it | Nora McInerny | TED
• David Kessler: How to find meaning after loss | TED