Before my
dad went on ahead, I’d never really considered the way that the birthday of a
loved one can transform from something that fills you with anticipation and excitement
to something that seems so sad. It seems so odd to me the way that happens; certainly I still want to recognize and
celebrate the birth of one of the most important people in my life, even when
he isn’t still here to celebrate himself. I think for my family, the sense of enhanced sorrow and grief that comes
with this week is exacerbated by the fact that it was the same
week that he was diagnosed with the brain cancer that took his life only ten
short weeks later. That, as much as his
absence, makes it seem counterintuitive to celebrate.
For me, in fact, it feels like salt is being
rubbed into a wound, and a lot of the emotions that are usually just hanging out beneath the
surface on a typical day seem to be bubbling up and threatening to erupt with the week when
everything changed for my dad, for my family, and for me. The annual marker, which I prefer to avoid
thinking of as an anniversary since I tend to think of anniversaries as happy
and worthy of celebration, approaches without hesitation and haunts us without regard
to our ongoing pain. The week represents such a major shift
- an ending of things as they were and an awareness of what should have
been.
I long for just one more hour, one
more conversation, one more hug, one more anything with him. I want to push through the pain and focus on
the importance of the day of the year on which the man who means so much to me
came into this world; the challenge to do so is far greater than I ever
imagined it would be. There are so many things that my dad will not get to
experience now, things he would so love to be a part of or to know about or to
see. His presence in my life continues
to shape me on a daily basis, and I do celebrate that fact as much as the grief
will allow. Sometimes though, especially when I can’t avoid the what if, the should
have, or the should be kind of thinking pattern, I am overwhelmed by it all,
missing him so much that I struggle to move through the ache. The only
thing that seems to be of comfort to me when I think about those things is to remember the life
that he led that I know he considered to be a great one, to recall the way he
was filled with such joy and gratitude, and to recognize the fact that I know
if he knew anything at all for certain during the days of his illness it was
that he was loved. Happy birthday, Dad;
you are loved and you are missed.
