Deathiversary and Life Lessons

Every day has been a different struggle. It's been a year since you died and somehow it still feels like a lifetime and a single breath all at once. 

Some days it's forgetting that you're gone, and having a mini-experience of that grief all over again.  Other days it's wanting to get some of your great life advice and realizing that I will only be able to recall things you've told me. Having to realize that there's a moratorium on the life advice you provided, and that I'll never gleam anything new.  That's weird to think about. I will have to depend on the 25 years I had with you to get through the rest of my life. 

Other days it's simply talking about you in the present when people ask what my parents think about me moving away,etc.  It's easier than having to explain that you're dead.  Can you have a elevator speech about the death of a parent? I feel like I've crafted one, and it's very bizarre that I can give a synopsis of your life in the time it would take to ride an elevator with a stranger. But don't worry, I haven't hit that level of crazy yet, I'm not striking up conversations with strangers to discuss your death.

I feel like that's something I still don't know how to handle.  How do you remain authentic without over-sharing? How do I express that your death can feel crippling, without freaking people out or getting the sympathy-dead-dad eyes.  It's a look.  I never quite understood the look, until I started to receive it all the time.  It's hard to catalog how I feel when I get that look. Thankful? Frustrated? Embarrassed? Sad? Guilty? Loved? It makes for this blend where I want to say thank you and express my gratitude while simultaneously making sure they know that I don't need those eyes. I have been able to grow in the last year in ways that I would never have understood until I was on the other side. Your death was an inevitability that I spent two decades preparing for.  I thought I was ready.  I felt prepared.  I still didn't get it, not until a year ago.  

Shit, most days I'm still having to dig deep and mine the gems out of the rubble and utter destruction I felt when it happened.  

I'm standing here, in the foundation of my story, and trying to remind myself that we all have different stories.  I'm lucky because I had you for 25 years. Some people aren't able to have that. Some people have parents who remain aloof or aren't in the picture. I had 25 years of intentional time.  I had magical bed time stories that I'm sure I'll tell again someday, and I had support and love while I made mistakes. I had someone to teach me what it means to love with your whole heart. I guess I'm just unlucky because you'll miss getting to be involved with the rest of my life. You'll miss being present in the milestones, but I don't doubt that I'll feel you in those moments.  I feel you now while "the sun beats down upon my face"

I wasn't quite sure how to spend today. Do you celebrate a deathiversary? Is that a real word? I'm sure I could google it and check, but it's what feels most right.  I took the day off of work, and I'm sitting out on my porch writing this while the weather tries to make up it's mind.  It's raining and the sun is shining. Honestly it's just such a perfect damn metaphor for how I feel today that its almost comical. I'm listening to Zeppelin's Physical Graffiti album because it's your favorite, and I'm trying to feel you in all of the ways I've felt you in the last year.  I feel pieces of your soul in the strangest of places, and every time it washes over me I just feel so damn thankful that I had the time with you that I had. 

I was on the phone with mom this morning, and she was talking about how much you loved Emily and I. She was talking about how blessed we were to have a father who cared about us so deeply. She said that the light and pride in your eyes when you talked about us was overwhelming. She thinks that you were finally able to let go because you could see how happy we were.  Emily and I were starting our lives, and you could see that we were going to be okay. I want you to know that I've spent every day of the last year trying to make sure that you'd still be proud.  I'm living my most authentic life.  I'm trying to be more vulnerable with people, and I'm trying to learn to ask for help when I need it.  I'm making sure to tell the people in my life that I love them because at the end of the day, that sense of love is what will remain far after I've gone.  I can still feel your love like a tidal wave, and it's been a year. So dad, you can "die easy" because we are still okay. 

Happy (belated) Birthday

I wrote this on the plane to Texas for your birthday, but I just realized I never posted it.  I came back to write about the impending anniversary of your death, but I wanted to put this out in the universe first....

1/26/2018
I guess I'm not quite sure what the protocol is.  Do I wish you a happy birthday, or is that wrong because you're gone? I guess I always hear people say "Well he/she would have been...." so, Dad, you would have been 61 this year.  Is it weird to find it satisfying that you died in a multiple of 5? That's the way I like to adjust the volume in my car or on the TV...so having that 0 at the end of your birthday feels more...final, somehow? Maybe it's that it helps me feel a sense of control over something that was so radically out of my control? Maybe it's because I'm still listening to my "Dad Jamz" playlist, and sometimes the music is just a little too loud in my car but it always feels right. It might be a little obsessive, but we've all got our problems.  Loud music will always be one of mine.  After all, I am your daughter.

Whoa, sorry about all of that.  I feel like when I get really overwhelmed I look for the things that comfort me.  I guess that little Woolf-rant about a life-long habit is just one example of the moments I've needed in the 10 months that you've been gone. It even feels weird to say.  How can 10 months simultaneously feel like a lifetime and a single breath?  I don't know if I'll ever understand it, but I know I'll learn to cope with it better (or at least I pray I will).  

I think I just still can't process that I don't get to tell you things anymore.  I guess I still tell them to you by writing these out, and I believe that you can see what's going on in my life, but I want your feedback. I want you to tell me what you think of the Cowboys 9-7 season.  I want to talk politics with you. I want to hear about who has visited you lately and what they're up to. I want to show you all of the places I've taken your passport in the last 10 months. I want to tell you about the hikes I've done and the trips I've taken. I want to swap more stories. I would give anything  to hear one of your stories. I regret the times that I helped finish one that I'd heard a thousand times because I want to hear it so bad.  I feel even more ridiculous because I always knew that I needed to be cherishing these moments, and I still finished your stories or reminded you that you already told me.  I want to sit and drink a nice single-malt scotch with you.  I want to go to El Matador, so Emily and I can tell them it's your birthday. I want to watch you fume that you can't get away from the table, so you have to sit there and let us sing to you while you wear a sombrero.  I can see it so clearly in my mind that I don't know if it's actually happened before or if I'm fabricating memories. I want to watch an episode of Breaking Bad with you because we never finished the series. I want to FaceTime so I can show you my dog and my cabin. I want to complain about the stupid amount of snow piled up outside. I want to hear you say "peachy-keen" (which I always thought was "peachy-king") or end a phone call with "peace, love, grand-funk". 

If nothing else, I want to simply exist with you.

Well, I guess that's actually a pretty large request.

I've caught myself doing or saying things that feel like you. I didn't realize how many of my idiosyncrasies were things I picked up from you over the years.  I never thought twice about calling myself a "nekojita" when describing my aversion to super hot drinks. I will never think it's weird to add an ice cube or two to a piping hot cup of coffee. I didn't realize that it's impossible for me to say "Ohio" without immediately singing "Round on the end and 'hi' in the middle" in my head. When I talk about microwaves and tell people to "nuke it"- I should tell you that I'm trying to break this habit because of all the utter insanity in the US. I didn't realize that my need to make other people feel comfortable in awkward situations comes from you cracking jokes about wheelchairs in a room when people don't know what to say. 

Hear me out, I know you hate(d) Fleetwood Mac- this is where I'm like mom-but I actually broke down crying while getting ready for work last week because "Landslide" came on. It was this live version, and you hear Stevie Nicks say "This is for you, Daddy". I just lost it.  Right in the middle of putting on my mascara.  It is inconvenient, this grief of mine.  I was just trying to start my day, and suddenly I had to be aggressively reminded that you're gone.  I went to Thailand in November, and on my first flight to Beijing I was aggressively reminded that I wouldn't get to tell you every last detail of the trip. Honestly, you owe the poor man next to me an apology.  He just sat there in confusion while I quietly had a breakdown somewhere over the Bering Sea. I much prefer the passive reminders.  It happens when I'm driving home from work, and I want to call you and tell you any of the  aforementioned things, and I simply think "Oh wait, I can't." It happens when I'm digging through my purse and touch your passport- I told you it's with me everywhere I go. It happens on Sundays when I expect you to call me after a Cowboys win or a Texans loss to gloat. By the way, they didn't play each other in preseason this year because of a hurricane. I was glad the game was cancelled because I wasn't ready to face that day just yet.

I don't quite want to call it a gift, but I think that this is a lesson you're forcing me to learn, and it will continue to make me stronger.  You taught me a lot about love, compassion, and empathy while you were alive. I think I'm still trying to figure out my buzz words from this lesson, but so far it feels like grace, appreciation, and trying to carpe the hell out of this diem. 

This is for you, Daddy.