Death of a Mentor:
The Grief Process
This is going to be a longer one, people, so settle in.
On Tuesday, July 14, 2026, a man I called my recovery "dad" passed away. For over twelve years, he mentored me as I became a better human. He saw me at my worst--and I mean, crawling to the recovery meetings in my pajama pants during those times I could barely find the energy to hold on--and he smiled with me during the best times. He was buried that Friday. I attended his funeral, and cried at every song we sung (okay...tried to sing). I gave him my 24 hour chip. He, after all, helped me earn it.
They say grief has five stages. I know from other experiences that grief can indeed bring about denial, and anger, and bargaining, and depression. It takes a while before you get to acceptance. Every person and every grief has their own unique timeline. And any trigger can take you backwards, when grief knocks on your door, to surprise you again.
I also know that grief is selfish. Immediately, I thought of my pain. I wrote this poem to process it:
To the Stolid
Hawk on I-74
To you, stolid
hawk, white belly rimmed
in rusted
feathers, looking over your kingdom
in the deadened
tree on the side of interstate 74
beside the wind
turbines, not moving,
wings folded, beak
golden and bent:
Do you see me
holding in the grief, covering it up
with a crust of
humor and solemn laughter
to the point of
cracked exhaustion until
the next
morning when I will let it out,
leaking at the
church hymns we sing
at the funeral;
On Eagle’s Wings and Amazing Grace
too familiar,
too ridden with holes of memories
to be able to
finish the song?
We knew this
day would come, this fight
of fifteen
years finally finished, imagining
a story laid to
rest, placing my sobriety coin
beside his body
in the casket, this shiny nugget
not sufficient
to portray the effect he had
over the years,
a man whose strength and compassion
was carried to
souls throughout his life.
Do you know,
stolid hawk, this pain?
Do you know the
need to let go?
Do you know the
release in realizing
his strength and
compassion are
still carried
in every one of us?
By Julie S. Paschold
aka Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle
***
I was so focused on my own pain, my own suffering. It wasn't until I shared this with his family that I realized I hadn't thought outside my own self. I hadn't considered anyone else.
A few weeks later, I was driving home through a thunderstorm at night. This wasn't a normal rain. It was a downpour so thick the windshield wipers don't keep up. Where your headlights reflect back the grey and silver of the water pouring from the dark sky. Where the road disappears in front of you, and the only view you have is when the lightning flashes two blessed seconds at a time. When you think about calling your loved ones, telling them you love them one last time. I thought of my mentor's wife, how she would reach for her phone to call him, and he wouldn't be there at the end of the line. So I write this poem, trying to imagine what she would be thinking:
A Tremble of
Regret
Hearing
thunder, a tremble of regret shakes my heart.
Driving at
night in the fog
during the
thunderstorm
I could no
longer see the road.
Fearing this
was the end,
I reached to
call you, but
knew there
would be no answer.
I thought of
the darkness
and brokenness,
the things
that were no
more, that you were gone.
When the
lightning lit up
the night sky,
I knew
I at least had
this:
In my life, I
had loved
as others had
only imagined,
thoroughly and
completely,
the best that I
could.
I loved you
with every
starlit part of
me.
Not everyone
can say that.
And I knew,
then, it would
be okay. I
would be led home.
At least, once,
I had loved.
by Julie S. Paschold
aka Tansy Julie the Soaring Eagle
***
Yet still, this didn't get me to the heart of the matter. I was thinking of the family, of his wife, yes. I was thinking of others. But this was passing over the matter of acceptance. The matter staring me in the face. I could hear him cussing in my ears--
dammit girl i'm right here. just accept what's happened. He knew the closer something is to me, the longer it takes me to learn it. Often, someone has to just bluntly tell me what they need me to hear. And that made me think of who he was. How he was. It made me smile a little. And I took a walk. And wrote this:
The Accidental
Leader
For C.D.
They say he
wouldn’t tell you he was hurting
if he was
standing in hot lava and on fire,
but at the end
it was in his eyes:
those eyes.
After years of fighting
it was finally
over. His pain. His life.
You having to
share him with all of the sorry sacks
that called his
phone and needed rides
to meetings and needed saving from their
own selves. He
seemed gruff, would talk at us
in terms of
brutal truth when we screwed up,
grumbled when
anyone didn’t listen
(knew they’d
straighten up eventually
if they came
back) but under all that
was the softest
heart anyone could find for miles.
No one was like
him. He shared what he had,
gave until he
had nothing left to give,
then was
surprised when people loved him
just for who he
was. He considered himself
an accidental
leader but we followed him,
took his
advice, listened and laughed with him.
Now that he’s
gone, no one tries to fill his shoes.
But he’s left
his stories echoing in these rooms.
Thanks for
sharing him.
We miss him
too.
by Julie S.
Paschold
aka Tansy Julie
the Soaring Eagle
***
So there it is, folks. My journey through grief. Just a short one. That doesn't mean it's over. That doesn't mean the memories stop, or I won't be jolted back the next time I go to a meeting and someone says something, tells a story, quotes him, wears a shirt that reminds me of him, looks like him. But that's where I am now. Where this story ends.
Anyone going through grief of any kind: reach out. Don't do it alone. Expect ups and downs, backwards and forwards and every way in-between. Triggers to pop up. Energy changes. And expect it to take time.
It's okay to laugh. It's okay to find joy. It's okay to find love, and little kindnesses in the world, too. Not everything is dark. Grief knocks on your door sometimes, but acceptance is there, too. Let your loved ones in. Let them help you through.
Take care, folks. Truly, love one another.
Thanks for reading.
Tansy Julie
