Nicole Chung mourning at Disney World after her father's death.

The first thing I did after my father's funeral was getting sick. Nothing dramatic, just a cold garden variety that has been passed down by my mother. The second thing I did was go to Disney World.

Watching my husband pack our things after the meal of mercy – by placing our long-sleeved, dark-hued, dark-hued funeral outfits, superimposing jeans and t-shirts, and the 7-year-old Belle costume on the top, Labels from Disney to our luggage so that they would be picked up at Orlando Airport by Disney cast members and taken directly to our Disney hotel – I was wondering if I was a terrible girl. Was I insensitive? Abandon my mother? Once again, give priority to my husband's family rather than mine? My husband's parents have always lived much closer to us than my parents; In the last 15 years, I have spent much more time with them than at home. I've always felt sad about this report, but I never knew what to do.

We had planned Disney's trip with my in-laws – who had generously offered to pay all the expenses – for weeks. But I knew we did not really want for them, or for ourselves. We went for our children. None of our girls had ever been to Disney World and they counted the days since they opened the box containing their Disney MagicBands on Christmas morning.

After the death of my father, all of a sudden, at the beginning of January, all adults were reluctant to "cancel or postpone the appointment?" But it was difficult to find imminent dates that would work for everyone, and I hated the idea of ​​telling the kids, No, we're not going now because we're going to funerals, and no, I do not know when we can go. In addition, we had already booked all of our Fastpasses, and I did not feel ready to debate the relative merits of Dwarf Mine Train and Frozen Ever After.

A celebration was the last thing I wanted. But what was so great, I wondered, to leave the funeral and go back to Ordinary life – at school and at work, at meetings and obligations, at dreaded book editions? Nothing seemed normal with my father on the floor. Why not prolong the surreality and take my heartache on my first Disney experience?

One of the many things I did not know about grief is that it does not affect you all at the same time. After the death of my father, I kept waiting to cry. Anytime nowI thought about it. And it's gone. But for days, what kept me apathetic, confused, and impatient with everyone around me was more like a shock than a heartache.

Our two children still seemed far from understanding what had happened. Our 10-year-old daughter continued to shake her head and look either on her back or on her back when she was trying to tell her about the grandfather she loved, but she did not know it as well as I did. . Our 7-year-old autistic child seemed to have trouble grasping the abstract but absolute finality of death – she could repeat our words about what had happened, but grief was not yet a real and solid concept for her; not obvious to her in the books or movies that touched her, much less obvious in real life. We tried to explain it, but it seemed impossible and boring, and I did not know how to bridge the gap between our definitions and its understanding.

I thought – hopefully – that going home, seeing my mother, would open the floodgates for me. Yet, whenever I felt close to grief, felt and coped with my loss, our 10-year-old child said she was not feeling well (her own psychosomatic reaction to the upheaval of our family). -year-years would complain about something (she's not always the best traveler). Although my husband took care of the lion's share on this trip, I always felt distracted whenever one of the children complained, spoke or chose a useless argument.

I have been a parent for 10 years; I have a habit of neglecting my own needs. But I was not prepared for how much resentment and resentment I felt as a result of my father's death. In the days leading up to the funeral, our eldest daughter seemed determined to limit herself to one word, often irritable answers. Her youngest sister, shaken by the change of routine, was sticky and hard to handle. I knew that their behavior had to be excused. It's not their fault, I remembered. How are they supposed to know what to do with death at their age?

However, the sight of my mourning mother trying to cheer her extraordinary grandchildren the night before her husband's funeral made me angry. I began to wish that I let the children stay at home with my husband during the funeral, I just told them that I would meet them at Disney World. If I had gone to my father's funeral, I might have been alone, but at least I could have focused on my mother and our loss. When I sent as many text messages to my friends …there is no room for my grief with the children here-They returned friendly responses, but they reminded me that it was important that our daughters be there. Even though they were not very close to your father, a friend wrote, This is their first experience with death. They must be witnesses. She was right, of course. Yet, I asked myself: What about what I need?

Giving priority to my children, taking them into account, taking care of them before I take care of myself, it had to be a social affair after a decade of parenting. But while I was working to make me believe that yes, my father had really left, and yes, we were going to see him one last time and say goodbye, I realized that I did not want to be a parent at the time. My father's funeral … I just wanted to be a mourning girl.

The morning of the funeral, I donned a black dress and a deep blue cardigan, and then inspected the girls in their white dresses and sweaters, adjusting the ponytails that my husband had them data. I was trying to explain to our youngest daughter what was going to happen, even though it was my first Christian Orthodox burial – my parents had converted after I left home – and I did not really know it. "We're going to pray and then bury grandfather," I say, barely believing him myself. "You will see him and say goodbye."

Before the service, I met the friends of my parents – the people who became their family in my absence. I could not help comparing their constant presence in my father's life to my distance as the only rebel child who rarely came home. People I knew and others I did not know, my dad looked better than in the past. It's not that Dad never complained about the pain he was in – until the week of his death, every time I asked him how he was on the phone, his usual response was, "I'm going to so well, you wish you were me.

A priest who knew and loved my father spoke of him with great respect and affection. He said that he had always felt that my father had loved him "well beyond [his] merits, "a feeling I could relate to. Dad and I had our problems; we were sometimes disappointed. But our love one for the other has never been involved. He generally thought better of me than I thought of myself.

I was wondering how many other people in the massive crowds around us were crying too somebody or something here at The Happiest Place on Earth.

In his coffin, which a friend of the family had made and then refused to take a cent from my mother's money, he looked peaceful. But it was not very comfortable. My mother, who was mostly shouted at the time, put her arm around my shoulders. "Do not despair," she said. "It is our hope in the resurrection." That would have bothered me from someone else, but his loss was much greater than mine. Over the last ten years or so, I've been questioning the beliefs I once cherished, throwing away many others. But the faith in which you grew up can always go beyond the surface, even if your relationship with it has changed beyond recognition. As I stood in my parents' church a few feet from my father's body, listening to the parishioners around me, I did not know that the antiphons were singing. Perhaps I would not have been surprised to feel the Old Belief a strong current, as undeniable as it is invisible.

After the service, my mother and I went one last time to see Dad. Then my husband brought our children to say goodbye. For the first time in days, our older daughter no longer seemed in a bad mood, or a breath just to vomit. Tears ran down her cheeks as she said goodbye to her grandfather. I took her hand, then I wrapped my arm around her and squeezed her against us while we were both crumpled. My youngest daughter reached out, hesitating, and touched my father's gray beard. His fingers brushed his cold cheek. She smiled at him, just a little.

Suddenly, I knew we had made the right decision to bring the children with us. There is no easy shortcut to help your children learn what it means to love people who will die and live with that knowledge. Seeing my father in his coffin, touching his face, declaring that he was not getting up to make one of his stupid jokes to make her laugh – these moments are what allowed our 7 year old to finally understand this who had come to him and our family. She was referring to the funeral for weeks, for months in our conversations about my father; it would remain with her, make her loss credible, where all our well-meaning words had broken down.

"Goodbye, grandfather," she told him. "We love you, we will miss you."

In the end, I found my space to start crying, not at home with my mother, nor at my father's funeral, but on our first day at the Magic Kingdom. One of my dear friends was in Orlando at the same time we were there because his grandmother, who was living there, had just died. She met us there and we got on the dwarf mining train with arms up, murmured about the amazing racism of the tour "It's a small world" and saw my delighted youngest daughter meeting Belle.

Until then, I had been too shocked or I was traveling, or I was worried about my mother, or there were too many people to talk to and not enough time – but now, in the company of a good friend who was also in mourning, I was able to speak for the first time of my most embarrassing feelings and regrets for my father. We both followed a few steps behind the rest of my family, talking about complicated families and how death – no matter when and how it happens – leaves so many things open and painful and unresolved. I felt sad and strangely comforted, and in one way or another I also managed to have a good time. That made me wonder how many other people in the massive crowds around us were also crying someone or something here at The Happiest Place on Earth.

That night, I kept thinking about my father all the way through the fireworks, trying to reassure me that no one was watching me, nor the tears on my face, as this program had clearly been choreographed for an impact maximum emotionalcoarse!) and it was normal for people to cry, is not it? Mixed with my grief was a new desire, futile but fierce that my father's life had been not only longer, but Easierwith fewer worries and more time for that–more time for joy. He had worked as hard as he could, as long as he could, and he would never have been able to offer a vacation like this – between the park and the park. Attraction and resort, food and memories, it was an amazing excess experience compared to our modest family trips to the beach in the RV of my grandparents. Even these were often taken without my father because he had so few weekends off during the years he ran restaurants.

The day before her funeral, Mom talked about the many promotions that Dad had missed because his company wanted to promote and relocate younger single men with no family, who would be cheaper to move and who would not be forced to sell. their house first. "Is not it illegal?" I said, furious. My mother, who comes honestly from her pessimism, shrugged and said, "That's what we told him."

I kept thinking about my father all the way through the fireworks, trying to reassure me that no one was looking at me, nor the tears on my eyes. face.

To my surprise, Disney World was not a hard place to live in mourning. For me, it was not an escape from sorrow, but a break with real life and unsustainable. The cast members were as helpful as everyone told us; either it was sincere kindness and compassion, or they were all the best in the world to pretend. Our access pass for disabled people is easy. I was a little surprised to see how much I was conquered by the kindness and good humor. I had often told my husband that I could spend all my life without visiting a Disney theme park – but on the second day of our trip, I was smiling and saying things like "It's amazing , thank you! my "1st visit" button and asked how I enjoyed my inaugural Disney experience.

We were all focused on children, but I did not just follow the moves for them. I felt myself seen and even strangely, tenderly cared for while we were there, as if I had entered a world where, at least temporarily, nothing terrible could reach me or the people I loved. It was a blessed relief to fall into bed every night, exhausted and sore feet, and to sleep deeply until the morning for the first time since my father's death.

Yes, it was also impossible to escape the fact that my loss had been unexpected and radical, my life clearly divided into before and afterWherever I looked, there were happy children, festive families, so much undeniable proof that the rest of the world would be fine without my father. But I did not pretend to be happy as we rolled on a roller coaster and met our kids' favorite characters and ate ice bars and Mickey popcorn through the bucket. Despite the ravages of grief and cold, most of the time I was happy, because my children were, their first experience of death tempered by the vigorous resilience of youth, the love of my husband's extended family, the thrill of a welcome new adventure.

Back at Disney that first night, I called my mom to talk about our first day. I sent him photos and shared everything the children had done. When you tell people that you are going on a Disney vacation, as planned, the day after you buried your father, you expect to be called a monster. But my mother was so happy that we did it after all, and her disinterested happiness in the excitement of our girls finally convinced me that everything was fine.

I'm trying not to feel guilty about missing so much time with my dad during his last years while I was busy raising kids and working on the other side of the country. I am now, and for years, I am more mother than daughter and I think daddy has understood it. With limited time, limited vacations, limited resources, we did our best.

After his death, however, one of the first truths to pierce the mist of my sorrow and my misguidance was to have little guilt. do not the same as having little regret. I will always have regrets. If I knew how long we had, if I knew that my father would suddenly die at age 67, I could have made different choices. I may not have chosen a university within 3,000 miles of my home. I may not have stayed on the East Coast after my marriage. I may not have put my name on two mortgages, or pursued my higher education or had children when and where we went – all the decisions that prevented us from doing so made it even more difficult to visit. home. The important needs of my children and my parents.

But I have to remember that my father was also more parent than anything else. He has never experienced deep job satisfaction, so even though he worked hard, work was never his life. He left his family in Ohio to start a new one with my mother and me. We were his life.

By the time he got sick, my kids and my husband and my career were my life, and he would not have wanted me to put everything on hold because of him. If I know anything about my father, it's because he wanted me to be happy. And he would have liked his grandchildren to say goodbye to him, and then leave for their long-awaited trip from Disney – even if he would never hear about it.

Sometimes I have the impression of having spent months since his death to apologize to all members of my life. I am really sorry, I keep saying and typing and thinking and sometimes crying. To my mother, not to live closer to her. For my husband, for all he had to do, all the pieces he had to pick up while I cried. To my children, for my distraction and my shorter temperament. For friends, for absences from their holidays, birthdays, signatures, readings, e-mails, texts, because I was not prepared for what would be sorrow. I just did not know how much time you were losing, simply can not trace or account for that.

I have missed a lot this year. Most of the time, since the day of his death, my father has missed me, but I too have missed him. Some days, in truth, I always feel lost, grabbing in the dark a thread that I can follow to the person I was before that pain hits. And maybe I did not go to Disney World just because my children wanted it. Maybe I also went because this trip seemed like a chance to create memories with my own family, and keep them ferocious and close as I could. God knows I did not want to lose anything after my father's death – no precious time with my children, certainly not the opportunity to see them live their lives. At that time, we had all lost enough.