How do you cope with your dad's death?

January 15, 2024, 12:36 a.m.: I'm under the covers with one ear to the ground and the other to the ceiling. My left arm is splinted straight while my mind buzzes. All I can think of is my dad, Steve Katz.

My brain combines thousands of breakfast memories and projects them into one: I feel my dad pat my head as he says, "I love ya, kiddo!" I smell Chock Full o'Nuts coffee densely wafting from the lip of our stained carafe. I see one of our four Steak-N-Shake mugs filled with the color that only Sherwin-Williams can describe as "Gentle Fawn 8003-21b." You and I, we would say, "Beige-y cream."

Good Grief. is where I'll process transitions, traumas, memories, and victories. This will be a success if just one person finds a bit of their own story here, too.

I replay this scene often. Sometimes it's inter-spliced with chemo visits, ambulance sirens, delayed flights from Hartsfield-Jackson Atlanta airport to O'Hare, and the sound of low wailing. But last night, it was the simple version. The pleasant one.

On January 21, 2021, pancreatic cancer killed my dad.

It sounds brutal because it was brutal.

See, cancer—well—let's have Mayo Clinic explain: "In healthy cells, the instructions tell the cells to grow and multiply at a set rate. The cells die at a set time . . . Cancer cells can keep living when healthy cells would [otherwise] die." My dad's cells went rogue and kept living. This unbridled growth wreaked havoc upon him. As a result, he and our family experienced a slow agony.

My dad would have been better off had the cells known when to die. Horrifically, my dad had a lot in common with his cells.

Why am I starting Good Grief.?

The simple answer: I miss my dad.

The wordy answer: I'm writing to connect with a part of me and to keep my dad alive. When my family buried Dad, I had no idea that I was burying a part of myself as well. Steve will most certainly rest in peace, but I can't continue to let these parts of me rest with him.

Maybe moving through grief means accepting that I'll never find these buried parts of myself again. Maybe it means that I will find them, but they'll be unrecognizable. For $120/hour, my therapist tells me it's likely a bit of everything.

Good Grief. is a place to approach emotions and sit with grief. This is where I'll process transitions, traumas, memories, and victories. At some point, we may be able to turn Good Grief. into a community. For now, it's a single post.

Who am I, and why should you care?

I'm Lil Katz. (Well, most people know me as "Lily," but I'm trying out a new thing.) I don't think you should care, but if you do, here's a bit about me:

Somewhere in China, sometime around May 1995, my biological mother birthed me, and in 1996, the Katz family adopted me. I was sick as a dog, but with enough food, swaddling, and affection, I made it. I grew up in a practicing Jewish household within a Catholic, conservative town. My family and hometown don't have much in common, but they're both white.

My family and hometown don't have much in common, but they're both white.

I ate beef jerky, liked boys, and tried to impress girls. I faked sick with my brother. I had a bat mitzvah. I under-ate and over-exercised. I loathed the shape of my eyes. I drew and photographed my life. I loved one boy whom I never told. I realized my love for girls, too. I babysat and worked in retail. I bought a Fossil watch and felt R-I-C-H, even after the rose gold finish faded.

I went to college, made friends, and took up biking. I did improv. I was calculating. I was rash. I wanted to be a journalist. I partied, lost brain cells, and fell in love three times. Someone stole my skateboard, then my bike. I had my heart broken twice.

With my partner, I moved to Atlanta without having visited. I found a community and had another bike stolen. My dad was diagnosed with pancreatic cancer. I had my heart broken for the third time. My ex and I shared one final bottle of wine. I lived one of the best years of my life. I racked up thousands of Delta miles and photographed concerts every week. I started rock climbing.

The subsequent three years feel undefinable. I think it's brain fog from grief. To gain clarity, I'm writing here.

I may write things here that don't feel quite right down the line, or at least I hope that's the case.