Nobody warns you about the anger. At the doctor who missed it, the driver, the hospital, the smoker who's ninety while your person is gone at fifty-one. At friends whose parents are alive and complaining about them. At God, if you have one. At them - for not going to the appointment, for leaving you with all of this, for dying. And then, right on schedule, at yourself for being angry.
Anger is grief with its back up. Underneath almost every furious thought is the same sentence: this was not supposed to happen. The anger is your love refusing to sign off on the loss - of course it's loud.
It needs somewhere to go, because held in it curdles and aimed at people it burns things you'll want later. Walk it. Scrub something. Say the unsayable version out loud in the car with the windows up. Write the furious letter you'll never send - the postbox here takes those too. None of this is petty. It's drainage.
And the anger at them - the dead - frightens people the most, so hear it clearly: being angry at someone for dying is one of the oldest, most human parts of grief. You can be furious with them and love them with your whole chest in the same breath. Grief never asked feelings to be consistent.