Father's Day 2013

This one's not the first Father's Day I've spent with my dad, but it's hitting me hard anyway.  There is so much stress and turmoil going on in my life these days related to my job that I don't feel like I am in "top shape" when it comes to being prepared to cope with the grief that still so often catches me by surprise, either with its timing or its intensity or both.

I looked through some old pictures today and found so many of my dad doing things he loved to do, whether it was sitting in a lawn chair in the sun reading the paper, running, sitting on the beach, or spending time with his family.  In all of them, he looks happy and healthy and as if he is perfectly content, and for that I am so grateful, except for a song that keep playing in my head:

CLICK HERE TO LISTEN TO THAT SONG ...

Today I found myself thinking about how on the day after my dad had died, I stood in the shower in the guest bathroom of my parents' house, crying and crying, feeling so much like my heart was breaking that I thought I needed to hold my hand over my chest to keep it together.  Never had I imagined - or even thought to imagine - that a day like that day was coming, or like the days like the ones I figured were still to come.  I had no idea how I was going to get through even that first day without my dad there physically with me, much less through the rest of my life.  I felt like I was falling down a well in slow motion, and I knew that at some point I would seriously need to reconsider my world view and, in essence, myself.

So many times, I've thought back to the last night that my dad was in the hospital and to the way that he insisted on having all the lights turned out and for Jennifer and me to be on either side of him as he tried and tried to sleep.  I remember how he reached out in the darkness to grab my hand and Jennifer's without even looking, and, recognizing the trust, the love, and the vulnerability in that move, I quietly started to cry there beside him in the dark; I was so grateful that he was so sure that we were right there with him.    

What I wouldn't give for just one more day with him.  I wouldn't even care what we did together; I just have so much to tell him and to talk to him about.  It's like I'm the one now reaching out into the dark to grab a hand to hold, and I'm so grateful that I have people who love me (and tolerate me) enough to serve that purpose, but it's still something that's so much tougher that I could have ever imagined.

Happy Father's Day to the man who was the perfect father for me.
I miss you and love you more than I can adequately express.

Time – Part 4

Continued from Time - Part 3

Last year on Father’s Day, I was resolute in my determination not to fall apart despite the fact that it was my first without my dad.  I wanted to honor my husband, who is a spectacular father, and I wanted to be able to hold it together so that those around me would think I was improving in my ability to cope with my grief.  

With the help of my teenaged daughters, the first part was easy, and it helped me to stay busy so that I could address the second part.  In the middle of that afternoon, we decided to go over to my in-laws’ house to give my father-in-law (my husband’s stepfather) a Father’s Day card.  We already had a gift for him but still needed a card to go with it, and so I asked my husband to stop at Walgreen’s and let me run in to get a card on the way to their house.  

I entered the store through the sliding glass doors and went straight to the greeting card aisle.  And that’s where I lost it.  As I stood there unabashedly crying in front of the special section of Father’s Day cards, I could hear the sound of a ticking clock, even more loudly than I had been hearing it since my dad’s diagnosis, filling my head.  My husband, realizing I had been in the store too long, came in and found me, pieced me together the best he could, and walked me back to the car.  As we had done since my dad went on ahead five months earlier, we muddled through somehow, sad but putting one foot in front of the other because that’s what has to be done.

In the last year, I honestly don’t think my grief has gotten any better (no stupid NEW NORMAL for me!), but I do think it has changed.  But one thing that hasn’t changed is the sound of that damn ticking clock.  Or maybe it’s a timer on a bomb.  Or one of those metronome things that used to drive me half-insane during the piano lessons I took as a child.  Whatever it is, I hate it.  I hate that I have that sound in my head; I hate that I have the knowledge that things won’t always be even as “ok” as they are right now.  I hate that I often don’t feel safe, because in a single minute two Octobers ago, life as I knew it dropped off the edge of a cliff, and everything I believed in was called into question.  When things became unbalanced, when I lost control – wait, correction, when I learned that there really is no control to be had over anything in life except maybe our perspective.  

And sometimes even controlling that is not entirely possible to do, especially for me now with that noise in my head and the knowledge that I needed more time with my dad!  Time while he was healthy, time to take care of him while he was sick.  Time to figure out ways to ensure that each new day would be one that he would look forward to because of the joy it could bring, rather than one to dread or to fear or even just to tolerate.  I wanted him to be able to close his eyes and smile peacefully, but he didn’t close his eyes very often and when he did, he wore more of a grimace or at least a look of worry.  As much as fucking cancer stole my dad, it also stole my chance to have enough time to make his last bit of time not just bearable but joyful for him – he didn’t get the cherry on top and for that I will always be resentful and remorseful.

And that’s the tough thing about grief: in the process, we are forced to learn to live without givens, in the midst of chaos and with the sadness and the anger mixed in.  We have to learn to focus on the good while at the same time knowing that doing so won’t make up for what happened or quiet the ticking noise or bring meaning to our loss.  As we flail and struggle and fight over what happened and about what needs to be done in light of it going forward, may we not forget the sustaining beauty that exists in every moment we are privileged to live on this earth.  Even the dark ones.

“Your time is limited, so don’t waste it living someone else’s life. Don’t be trapped by dogma – which is living with the results of other people’s thinking. Don’t let the noise of other’s opinions drown out your own inner voice. And most important, have the courage to follow your heart and intuition. They somehow already know what you truly want to become. Everything else is secondary. I want to put a ding in the universe." ~Steve Jobs

This One's For You, Dad

There are a lot of things about my dad that someone who didn’t have the privilege of knowing him well might not really understand - things that were such a part of him, things that really made him the person he was, things that I want to be sure to always remember. Here are a few:

*Many times when he wanted to buy my mom a present, he couldn’t figure out what to buy, and so he went to a store that sold women's clothing and just bought everything on one of the manikins, including the shoes and jewelry. He would point to a manikin and say to the sales clerk, "She looks about the same size as my wife. Can I please buy everything she has on?"
*He tried desperately to keep up with technology, including social networking, because, as he said, "I need to stay connected!" However, he often got things in this category confused. Despite many lessons from his grandchildren, he never understood how other people could see what he put on his Facebook profile. And he sometimes got mixed up about the term "text" and called it "twist."
*Whenever he competed in races that he didn't really have a chance of winning, he often made up a category and proclaimed himself the winner of that. For example, once after a biking race, he said, "I didn't win my age group, but I was the first guy over 50 to finish who didn't wear biking shorts." (He wore running shorts when riding his bike early in his biking "career.")
*He was preparing to do an Ironman triathlon, at the age of 67.

*He thought it was a good idea to “round up” in the amount of exercise time – he regularly told my mom that he was going to run or bike for a certain amount of time and then actually went for longer, basing his time on how long he thought it would take her to notice he had exceeded his original “bid”
*He once told his grandchildren to load up in the car for a “big surprise,” which ended up being a sale he had found for some fake-Croc shoes AT A GAS STATION.
*He LOVED to try to jump out and scare people, and this became a long-standing family joke because he was TERRIBLE at hiding. And every ghost story he told ended the same exact way, with him saying something like "And the boy went up the ladder, climbing the first step, then the second, then the third, until SOMETHING GRABBED HIM - his friend!" (Even when the kids were young, they weren't at all scared by his ghost stories.)
*Anytime a holiday was coming up that involved a gift for him like Father’s Day or his birthday, he would suggest (repeatedly) that we give him the gift ahead of time. Then when the actual holiday rolled around, he would jokingly say that we didn’t give him anything. Which brings me to what made me think of some of these quirks …

Last night, I dreamed that I was talking to Dad on the phone, and he laughed and said, “Thanks for calling, but what did you get me for Father’s Day? I don't think I got anything from you.” After thinking about it, I now have a new plan:

CANCER IS NOT GOING TO KEEP ME FROM HONORING MY DAD ON FATHER’S DAYS FOR THE REST OF MY LIFE!

So here’s what I got you this year, Dad, and I hope you like it: