Alex and Jeff Gedrose
My name is Alex Gedrose, I am 28 years old and my father Jeff Gedrose passed away from Leukemia in 2001 when I was 5 years old.
I’ve had a lot of people describe my dad to me over the years, through stories and memories. He was the life of the party, always. He was the best version of himself in social settings. He had a great sense of humor, and had a really hard time taking anything seriously. He hated conflict, and tried to avoid delivering bad news or having difficult conversations. The older I get, the more parallels I have been able to draw between my dad and me. I wish that I had more time with him.
My memories are fuzzy since I was so young when he passed. One that sticks out is Saturday morning pancakes. Every Saturday morning, Dad would pull up two chairs to the counter in our kitchen and have my younger brother Corey and me help him make pancakes from scratch. He would let us play with the measuring cups and egg carton, as he created from scratch what I believe to be the best pancakes on earth. It became a family tradition that lived on after Dad passed. I remember my mom making it a priority for us growing up. The chairs at the counter turned into chairs around a miniature table in the family room in front of cartoons, which eventually turned into chairs at the regular table. I looked forward to that breakfast all week. Mrs. Buttersworth is a key player in this breakfast spread, and every once in awhile mom would surprise us with bacon on the side.
When my dad was in high school, he had the incredible pleasure of having his dad, my Grandpa, Dick Gedrose, as his high school principal. Grandpa had worked at Jesuit High School for 15 years or so by this point. During my dad’s freshman year, he was approached by an upperclassman in the locker room after football practice. This student corners my dad and says “You know, your dad is a real asshole.” He was clearly upset about some form of discipline that grandpa had brought upon him that day. Without even looking up from his locker, my dad responds “you only have to spend 8 hours a day with him, I have to live with him!” My dad was never approached again by him.
The grief surrounding losing my dad is the most important aspect of my life. My relationship with it has grown over the years. One thing has stayed the same, however. The reality that it never ends. Just when you think you understand grief, a new obstacle stands before you. Big or small, there is always something changing about it. Not only have I had to accept this reality, but welcome it. I spent several years in therapy as a child that got me through the first stages of my grief. As life went on, new feelings started to build, evolving with me as I grew up. It wasn’t until I returned to therapy as an adult that I started to understand my relationship with my grief. Through this work, I have grown and matured more than I ever thought that I needed to. I told myself before I started my adult therapy that I would not be ready to be a dad until I understood why I miss mine so much. The truth is I will never understand, because it will always change. What I do understand, however, one year into fatherhood, is that I needed to become a dad in order to continue processing the loss of mine.
Becoming a dad has been the most significant healing tool to date. It feels like the hole has filled in and I am associating fatherhood with my own experience being a dad instead of my experience growing up without one. The “without” is still tied into my current fatherhood mindset and I find myself being more present in the little moments with my daughter, and even leaning on this philosophy when I’m having a tough parenting day. Countless times I have told myself “you are lucky to have a messy diaper to change” or “you will miss these sleepless nights one day when she is out of the house.”
I’ve also learned how precious life is, and how quickly it goes. My mom coined a phrase that I carry with me every day now: “celebrate when life is boring.” A lot to unpack from such a simple sentence. Life eventually settled down in our house of 3. My mom did an incredible job keeping our lives on the rails. She went back to school and started her own business, all while keeping my brother and I on track in school, on time to every single practice and competition, and even made time to keep our family traditions rolling. That’s a real life superhero. As I grew up, I started to hear mom’s signature catch phrase more often. I understand where she is coming from now. Life was anything but boring for us after dad died. And I know that we all would have given anything for a boring tuesday night as a family of 4.
I’m fortunate enough to have a busy life, filled with people that I love and who support my family endlessly. Life is usually busy, and it is easy to get lost in the endless schedule, weekend trip planning, work, vacations, etc. It’s also easier to celebrate when life is busy and exciting. But what about when it’s boring? Can you celebrate on a tuesday evening in the middle of Oregon winter, in the dark, while cleaning up your messy house? Hell yeah you can. You can celebrate that you have a house to get messy with your family. It’s more than being present, it’s consciously appreciating what life has given you on that “boring” tuesday. It isn't always that easy, and I have my fair share of stress induced episodes during the mundane cycle of the workweek. It's a work in progress, and I know that when I am able to celebrate when life is boring, I am able to unlock a level of happiness and content that I didn't know was possible.
My advice to someone experiencing the loss of a parent is very cliche: It’s OK to not be OK. For so long, I told myself that it was easier to stuff my grief and emotions down so deep that I wouldn’t have to encounter them. This did not work, as the emotions would eventually bubble up at random times, unprovoked often, and completely cripple me. Hysterical crying fits, frustration, and sadness would overwhelm me. I lived in between these outbursts for 20 years before my wife nudged me in the direction of therapy. Several years later, I can now confidently tell you that I am not OK, and I am OK with that. I will never be OK. I am, however, able to predict and control my grief patterns, and thanks to my mental exercises, equipped with tools to process the feelings that arise.
Today, I find ways to remember my dad and celebrate everything that I have learned from him and my loss. One of my favorite ways to tap into him is on his birthday (June 28th) and the day he passed (February 3rd), my wife and I go up to the cemetery and enjoy a cold beer with him. I open one for myself and Ashlyn, and leave an open one on his headstone (which I recycle after I finish mine). It has become a fun way to connect over beers and thank him for all that I continue to learn from him.
I’m so excited to get the Lost Parent Project started. For years I have been searching for the appropriate medium to not only share by story but empower others to share theirs. I hope that this place can become a destination for anyone experiencing loss to start to find any silver lining in it, and be OK not being OK. There are so many incredible stories to tell, and lessons to learn from our lost parents. I can’t wait to hear them.
