Sometimes I wonder if there really is a universal flow to grief, and if it means I have not successfully mourned if I don’t complete the stages in the established Kubler-Ross order. I’ve never experienced bargaining, have often gone straight to acceptance, then reverted to anger, which I suppose means I didn’t truly accept the death in the first place. I’m partial to flowcharts, logic gates, and all things opposite to the nuances of soft science, and not having an elegantly engineered manual to my specific version of grieving is frustrating and complicated.

My aunt died two weeks ago. I didn’t expect my mom to make the 3.5+ hour long flight to Denver for the funeral because traveling is harder on her with each passing year. But she did, and asked my sister to accompany her. As much as I wanted to go to say goodbye to my aunt, my mother asked me to stay behind in case my dad needed anything.

On the surface, there was logic to it. My aunt helped my mother after my sister was born, so it was natural that my sister was expected to pay her respects. And she loved Bac Ngoc just as much as I did.

But grief and love aren’t quantitative or competitive emotions, and as much as I tried to hold the aforementioned logic to the situation, it still didn’t remedy my feelings or pain. Quite simply, it’s this: I didn’t get to say goodbye.

I haven’t cried. For anyone who has known me long enough, they would likely be some degree of surprised by this. Sometimes I think it’s because I’ve experienced enough sorrow for an entire lifetime or two, but other times I think it’s because the anger has overwhelmed the healthier version of grief.

Instead, I rage scream with the windows rolled up in my car. I dust the furniture as though a single speck of dirt is at fault for current events, to be vanquished with ominous lemony chemicals. I have a new, passionate fixation on destroying all bugs that have taken interest in my indoor plants. I do all of this and much more because I have dumped my grief into a bad-smelling, dilapidated, greasy mental box where resentment, severed friendships, career failures, personal shortcomings, and other disappointments live. Periodically they like to burst out of their failing container to remind me that I am very far from perfect. Or happy, as is the case currently.

I’ve averaged one funeral every two years over the past decade, each fraught with its own complexities. Previously the most recent was that of my father-in-law, who declined rapidly after his wife died the year before. I was there towards the end of his life, and was able to pay my respects at his funeral. I didn’t cry then either. I was angry about a lot, namely related to my husband’s well-being. He sacrificed a lot to take care of his father. On his better days, I know his dad appreciated this and felt bad about imposing. On the worst days, things were said or done that required us both to continually remind ourselves that he was not himself, and that life’s upheavals combined with deteriorating mental conditions were to blame. But the lack of balance or resolution made me angry nevertheless, and it took months for my emotions to match logic.

Sometimes I tell myself that my emotions matter, other times it seems that steadfast actions are more important. Strangely the two states never seem to coexist. Even as I’m writing this, I wonder, how does it end? I don’t know, and I hope that’s okay.

Still, I would have liked to say goodbye.