The day my dad died, I took my daughter to the movies. It was exactly what I needed.

The author is still grieving for her father.

Courtesy of the author

The day my father died, it was a Monday, early morning. Normally, I would have been driving my daughter to school, but she was home with a badly injured foot. My uncle called and said, "Now I have to tell you that your father crossed over earlier this morning."This was a call I expected. Dad had been sick, in and out of the hospital, for eight months. It started with simple heart stent surgery and progressed to his major organs shutting down. He was 87.I was very close to my Dad. Probably closer than most fathers and daughters. And although we lived on opposite sides of the country, we talked a lot and texted often, and I always felt the strength of our connection, whether near or far.I took my daughter to the moviesAfter receiving the news, all I wanted to do was sit in a dark room and emotionally eat. But I had to parent; my daughter was home. So I said to her, "Let's go to the movies." Dark room? Check. Emotionally eating popcorn with extra butter and a whole bag of Sour Patch Kids? Check. Plus, I got to sit quietly and process while my daughter enjoyed a movie.It seemed like the perfect solution. Even my Dad would've been pleased. He was quite the gregarious trickster who loved celebrating life and being loud. To some, a movie might have seemed like disrespect or avoidance, but it got me through that horrible day.It's been three months since my Dad passed, and during that time my husband and I have bought and sold a house, moved across town, continued parenting our 9-year-old, and I've been caring for my special needs brother from afar. Needless to say, that's a lot, and I feel I haven't actually grieved yet. I've shed tears, yes, and taken photographs to honor the photographer in him, but I honestly have not had the time to dedicate to a grieving process like I think I should.Grief makes me tiredI also had no idea how physically tired grief can make you. I was knocked out, lying on the couch or in bed, when I should've been packing. I become even more forgetful than my menopausal brain already allows, and I could not take care of the simplest tasks. It felt daunting. I couldn't even muster the energy to send a quick email.