Remembering March 26, 2008

We knew it was going to be soon. But we thought it would be during the night. We'd each been telling him it was okay to go. We'd be fine. Shows you how much we knew.

The day my dad died, I had come over to my parent's house to bring my mom flowers for her birthday, which was the next day. He had not been conscious since the beginning of the week. Not eating, not drinking, his breathing was very labored. The hospice nurses said he was "in transition." His breathing would slow down, they said, and then it would stop. We'd been in and out of the room all day, listening for his breathing. Listening for it to stop.

By the way his breathing was slowing, we knew it was coming. I decided to stay the night with my mom. There was only one problem: I hadn't brought any clothes with me. I could wear something of hers except for under garments. I would have to have my own. Rather than drive all the way home and back, I decided to run to the store and buy some new ones. One more time, I went into his room and told him to let go. "We'll be fine. I'll take care of her," I said. And I left.

I really wasn't gone that long. I ran to the closest store and bought some cheap undies. Then I stopped into work to tell them I most likely would not be in the following week, and went back to my parent's house. I walked into the house, up the steps, into the hallway and listened. My mom was on the phone and called out that his breathing was getting slower. I listened. I didn't hear his labored breathing. Then I looked into the room. He wasn't breathing. I kept watching him, waiting for his chest to rise, but it didn't. He was gone. My dad died alone because I just had to go buy underwear. And I wasn't fine.

My mom said she had only been out of the room for a few seconds; the phone had just rung right before I walked in the door. Maybe he was waiting to be alone to let go. Maybe he knew we couldn't handle it if he let go in front of us. It helps a little to tell myself that, but I don't really believe it. We'd been telling him to go, and he went! We said we'd be fine! We were wrong.

Before it happened, I honestly thought I would feel relief when he was gone. He had been in so much pain for so long. I just wanted that to end for him. Yes, I'd be sad, but I was sure that I would be mostly relieved that his suffering was over. To say I was unprepared for the utter devastation I felt would be an understatement! I've struggled to try to put the right simile on it: It was like a light went out. It was like my heart was ripped out. It was...I don't know. It HURT. I felt alone and abandoned. He had always been there for me, and I wasn't there for him. I'm not sure I will ever be able to forgive myself for that.

Grieving sucks. At first, with so much to do, I just functioned on auto-pilot. I'd go where people told me to go, do what they told me to do. I cried constantly. It was exhausting. I'd crawl into bed at night desperately needing sleep, and just lay there and think and cry. The empty, hollow feeling was so overwhelming.

I was asked to speak at my dad's funeral, to represent the family. How in the hell was I supposed to do that? I could barely get myself dressed in the mornings! How could I put my feelings into coherent thoughts and stand up in front of people to say those thoughts out loud? Somehow, I summoned the strength and did my dad justice. I spoke about some of my favorite memories. I spoke about his unconditional love for me and my brother that I only understood after I had my own kids. I am proud of what I said that day. I think he would have been proud of what I said, too. But why did I wait to say those important things to him? Why do I wait to tell others how much I love them and how much they mean to me? I still don't have the answer for that.

After the funeral and taking care of all of the details, there is nothing left to do. There is nothing else to focus on except the deep loss you feel. And cry. I had no idea the human body could make so many tears. One thing I truly regret is how much I focused on myself and on my mom, but not on my kids. They were grieving, too. But they didn't want to come to me because they were afraid they would upset me. I feel terrible about that. I hope when we face a loss again they will come to me. We can cry together.

Today, it has been two years since my dad died. I still regret not being there. I am still shocked at how deeply I felt the loss. I am still ashamed of how much I took him for granted. And I still can't watch his favorite movie (and one of mine, too), "A Christmas Story." It hurts too much to watch it knowing I'll never hear him laughing at it again. I would give anything to watch it with him one more time. But where do I go from here?

Why his death seems to occupy my thoughts more this year than it did last year is a mystery. I have realized and finally made peace with the fact that I am always going to miss him. It hurts, but not in the same way. It's more like a constant ache than a stabbing pain. I can talk about him now without tearing up, most of the time. But I still see or hear things that remind me of him when I'm not expecting it. That swift cut of pain always takes me by surprise. I will always miss him, but I also will always have a part of him with me. I have wonderful memories and life lessons that will stay with me as long as I live.

I said at his funeral that a good parent leads by example. He taught me to put my family first. Because that's what he always did. So that's what I do. He taught me to do my best. Which is a lesson I learned perhaps too well. I warped doing my best into being perfect, and that became an obsession for me. I'm just now learning to let go of that obsession and to not beat myself up when I make a mistake. He taught me to not to give up. One of my worst memories from childhood was when my dad was laid off from his job. He took a job delivering newspapers to keep us in our house. I remember that was a very lean year; I still hate Hamburger Helper! I desperately wanted to spare my kids that experience, but here we are. I am trying to not give up. It's been hard, but we haven't missed a house payment yet. Looking back and living through this same experience as the adult/parent, I don't know where he found the strength to go on. He was much stronger and braver than I ever knew. And I wish I could tell him that now.

I am very blessed that I had my dad in my life as long as I did. And I'm thankful that my kids got to know him so well. He touched their lives just as he touched mine. My son is named after him, and my daughter's first word was "Pa Pa." I hope I am teaching them the same lessons he taught me. I hope they feel the intense unconditional love I feel for them.

I have no special plans to mark this day like I did last year, mainly because I have to work. He would tell me to stop thinking about him and to do my job! I will do my job, but I will never stop thinking about him. And I will do my best, because that's what he taught me to do.