Dear Daddy

New Year's Eve. I'm facing New Year's Eve without you. This seems more terrifying than Christmas did. Christmas comes and goes with little effect on every day life. New Year's Eve signifies a change. A big change. Usually, it represents a fresh start, a time to make changes to better your life. I don't want any of that. I want to just stay here. Stay right here, so I don't have to say it's been a year. Or that it's been two, or three. So I don't have to face my birthday, your birthday or anything else without you. Once the holiday's are over, life gets back into sync.

I'm not ready for sync. I'm not ready to fall back into the normal routine, because there is no normal anymore. Everything is abnormal, and I am doing my best to just step through it. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. I hate not knowing what I'm doing. I hate that I have to pretend that I do because there is no time to stop and grieve.

Tomorrow marks the beginning of the hardest year of my life. This has thrown absolutely everything out of order, and sometime I have to try to find it again. I'm not ready.

I've worried about this sort of thing for a long, long time. The first time I killed a bug, I freaked out because I was so sure that he had babies, and now those babies wouldn't have a daddy. The idea of not having a daddy absolutely broke my heart. In my head, I've had an order for how this sort of thing was suppose to happen. Grandpa would go first. Then Grandma. Then mom, and finally, many years down the line, when you were old and grouchy and not wearing black socks and shorts because of the deal we made so long ago, you would go. Everything indicated that is how it would go. This was never part of the deal. Your parents were not suppose to still be here when you left us. But they are. Now I'm paranoid I'm going to lose everyone. I hate having that fear. I hate it. But in the last two years I've lost so many things that were so important to me. Every time I get sort of through one, another comes along. I'm so tired. Tired of everything.

I saw someone the other day wearing a "Donate Life" bracelet. The very same one I wear every single day in an effort to somehow keep a physical piece of you with me. I wanted to ask them so many questions, hug them so hard and just cry. But I didn't. Instead, I made a simple comment, showed them mine and left it at that.

I'm about 13 minutes shy of ushering in the biggest struggle I've faced. I can't stop it. But I sure won't be celebrating it.

I love you, daddy.

Love,

Me.

Dear Daddy

Dear Daddy,

It's Christmas Eve. Normally, mom's family would come over, we'd eat and we'd watch hours upon hours of A Christmas Story and laugh as though it was the first time we'd ever seen it. I'd tease you about how we'd need to go to bed because NORAD said Santa was near. When we were younger, I'd stay awake to listen for you and mom moving around after everyone had gone to sleep. I'd hear the rustling of packages and bags and wait anxiously for the lights to go out. I'd wait about a half hour then go see what was left under the tree and sort through my stocking. When I was little, Dylan and I would wake you and mom up and pull you into the living room to open presents. As I grew, it was usually you pulling me out of bed to join everyone else. I've never been a morning person, so you'd poke at me and try to get me to wake up more. You'd demand to see everything I got, even though you already knew, and you'd go "oooo" and "all right!" very excitedly with each gift.

We never knew what to buy for you. I'd started asking you in October what you wanted, and I got your usual response. "I don't know." It was your standard answer to any question regarding gifts for you. I'd already told you that I was going to buy you a dancing squirrel that sang Christmas carols if you didn't tell me what you wanted this year. Last year, I bought you a bobble head version of The Old Man from A Christmas Story. He has sat on the mantle since I gave him to you. I fixed him, by the way. I glued his hands back to him, so he's holding his leg lamp once more. I found a house that had a life sized leg lamp sitting in its front window. You would have loved it.

We're going to your mom's house tomorrow. While it will be nice to spend some time with part of your family, it's going to hurt so much to be there, with them, without you. Your picture is all over her living room and my eyes can't help but drift towards the little box that sits in front of her TV. I guess, in a way, you will be there with us.

Oh daddy, I'd give anything for you to come back. I have so many things I need to say to you. I want to be able to see you, just one more time. I didn't get to see you that day, and that will forever hurt me. I told you how much I loved you while we were in the hospital. I said a lot of things to you in the hospital, but it's not the same.

There's not a day that goes by that I don't have something to say to you or to ask you about or that I don't ache to hug you. My rational mind recognizes that nothing would be a greater tribute to the kind of man you were than for me to go on and live my life as a good and decent person, because that's how you and mom raised me. My emotional mind doesn't feel the same. We always differed in that respect. That's one of the major areas that we argued about. You didn't like for me to get upset about things that you thought were inconsequential. You'd tell me it did no good for me to get upset because it didn't accomplish anything. I know eventually I will do better. I'll never be fine, because this isn't something I will ever be okay with. But I will do better. I'm not focusing on that right now, though. I'm not ready to think about doing better. I'm not anywhere near ready.

I hope your first Christmas in Heaven is a good one. I hope you, and Uncle Walter have a good time with Maxwell and Tango. I hope Maxwell is stealing your socks. I hope Grandma and Grandpa Davis find you. I hope Uncle Jack is blasting your eardrums with a western on full volume. I hope you get everything you ever wanted up there. I know that's not exactly possible, because if it were, you'd have all this free time, and you'd be spending it with mom. One day you'll get that chance. I pray that you're happy, daddy. I hope it's possible. I don't know how you'll be, being without mom. Or us. You've never really been by yourself as far as I can remember. And I hate that you have to be without us now. One day we'll all be together though. We'll all be spending Christmas in Heaven together, and I can't wait.

Love,

Me.

Dear Daddy

It's been one month since I've last spoken to you, teased you, played a hidden picture game while watching stupid reality TV with you. One month since I've seen you burn things, passed by you in the living room and rested my chin on your head or hugged you. One month since I've heard you say "Hey girl," as I walked by, or endured your teasing or heard one of your many sound effects.

I miss it more than I can ever say. Oh God, how I miss it. I miss it so much that I'm too numb to even feel it. That doesn't make much sense, does it? I don't know how else to explain it. It's like I've removed any sense of feeling, hollowed myself out until I'm a shell of nothingness just to find a way to manage with how overwhelming all of this is.

I started seeing Dr. Marks again. He wasn't taking new patients at the time I called, but he made an exception for me. Once he found out what happened he made sure to do his best to get me in for the rest of the month. He's being really great about it. I hope it helps. It's funny, but grief is what started me on therapy in the first place. All those years of therapy I had kicked off after grandma died. I still have the memory box I made for her in therapy. 14 years later, and it still sits at the top of my closet.

I'm not ready to make one for you yet. I'm not ready to admit that you're only a memory now. I can't. I can't handle that yet.

I miss your voice. I miss the way you smelled; a combination of Zest and Head and Shoulders. You always smelled clean, and it was comforting. I miss telling you I love you. I always kept the thought in the back of my mind that you could never say I love you enough. I made a conscious effort to do it multiple times a week because I've always been afraid of losing you and mom. Mom more than you though. Your family lives forever. Mom's doesn't. I was sure this was going to happen the other way around. I've been trying to prepare myself for that for years. Death is something I have always struggled with. I guess grandpa's death would be part of what set that off. That's all I remember happening before my obsession with ghost stories and Ouija boards began. I remember being upset, too. It's one of my earliest memories.

You've never worried like that though. You never let much get to you. It always bothered you that I did. I'm sure if you were here, you'd be very bothered by how hard I am taking this. I know you hated watching me grieve for Tango. That whole month you tried everything to ease me out of it and make me happy. At one point you even just begged me to smile again. I wish you were here now. You always made things easier to bear. You just handled everything so easily and so calmly. I always wished I could be more like you in that regard. I always felt like I failed you because I wasn't. And now, here we are.

I miss you daddy. I would give up everything and do anything in my power to make you come back. I wasn't done with you yet. We had plans. You had plans. You were suppose to get old. I was suppose to tease you about your socks and fashion choices and remind you you gave me the right to shoot you if you ever wore black socks and sandals. It makes me so angry that you spent most of your life taking care of other people and never asking for anything in return and you never got to do the one thing you wanted most. All you wanted was to retire and enjoy yourself. It absolutely eats me up inside that you never got that chance. There are so many things I'm angry about, but I won't get into them here.

I don't feel like I spent enough time with you. I don't feel like I told you I loved you or hugged you enough. I don't feel like I thanked you enough for being such an incredible father. I don't feel like I turned out to be what I should have to reflect how incredible you were.

God I miss you daddy. And I love you.

Where Do We Look For You Now?

Watched a Hallmark movie tonight. It was probably a bad choice. I did it anyway, and I cried as a result. One thing that really hit me was the eulogy he gave for the rabbi, the question he kept asking.

"Where do we look for you now?"

I thought perhaps it would be a good idea to make a list of answers to this question. He may not have meant for it to be answered, but it struck me as something I need to do. It was one of the few things that woke my brain up. Very few things do anymore. I have no creativity, no thought process, no memory. I'm completely blank. I'm going to take advantage of what little spark I've got while I have it.

So where do we look for you now, daddy?

Before, it was in the chair by the stairs, sitting sideways and watching TV, or on the patio with a beer, watching the trees and the birds. I'd look for you in the backyard out by the fence, watching the smoke rise off of whatever you felt needed to be burned that day, hands in your pajama pants pockets, house shoes on your feet, Maxwell at your side. I'd look for you over at the fence, beer in hand and talking to our neighbor, who absolutely broke my heart when I found him in his backyard, bawling beneath his tree the day after. He's really going to miss you, too. I'd look for you wherever mom was, because you were never far from her side.

So where do we look for you now, daddy?

Now, instead of looking for you watching the trees, I can find you in the breeze that moves through the branches and rustles the leaves.

I can find you at the bird feeders in all the various critters that feed from what you offer.

I can find you in a curl of smoke as it rises from a flame, whether it's burning leaves and limbs or not.

I can find you in laughter and smiles, something that so many people remember about you.

I can find you in sound effects, you had so many of them.

I can find you in humor and teasing. I can find you in the truth and doing what was right, whether it was easy or not. I can find you and hugs and encouragement. I can find you in my mom and my brother, both meant so much to you.

I can find you in holey house shoes and tennis shoes scattered around the house.

I can find you in the Roomba that you loved to watch as it rambled its way around the room. I can find you in the remote control, something you never had far from you, unless you'd lose it because when you got up to do something, you'd carry it with you. It was always yours.

I can find you in all the support and caring so many people have shown us. I can find you in the strength of my mother. You'd be so proud of her, daddy.

I can find you in my memories and my heart, both of which you will never leave. I can find you in the stories your brothers and nieces and nephews and parents have to share.

I can find you in food stains on my shirts. I always told you I inherited that from you.

I can find you in so many things, daddy. This is only a small fraction of them, my brain isn't as functional as I thought. But I can find you. I may have to live more of my life without you than with, but I will still be able to find you.

Guilt

I go back to work tomorrow. Someone else at work lost their father, so I am going to cover two of their shifts this week. Mom is happy I'm going back, and I'm sure everyone else is, too. It has been a question I've been asked frequently. Am I ready? I don't think so. Will I ever be ready? Probably not. Life waits for no one, unfortunately. How I wish I could just push pause and sit in the cocoon of stillness and quiet it would create. But I can't.

I'm scared to go back. Isn't that stupid? It's not that I'm scared of going to work. I'm scared of leaving the house, period. Leaving the house makes me feel like I'm separated from my family, and right now that is the last thing I want. Home is a safe place, it's where my family is. Even if I'm there by myself, I still feel connected to my family. It's where we all converge and meet and share. The idea of leaving the house for lengths of time terrifies me.

I was late getting to the hospital that day because no one could find me. My aunt went to work to find me, and I'd gone home. People are able to find me when I'm at home. It's the natural place to look for someone. And now I'm afraid to leave it. Spending 10 hours away tomorrow is going to be a challenge. I doubt I'll ever feel ready for that challenge. This is just silly, to be afraid to leave.

I feel like I'm letting people down because this is so hard. Everyone keeps encouraging me to think of happy things, to keep moving, to smile because of who he was, to not focus on the loss, but it's hard. Because I can't do it consistently, I feel like I'm failing. This doesn't make any sense, but I don't know how to explain it. It's illogical and stupid, too. This isn't a matter that other people get to weigh in on. But I feel guilty, and awful, for not being able to follow the advice of the poems and words and stories that everyone keeps giving me. Be positive, be happy, don't be sad he's gone. I don't know how to do that because it turns into a cycle. Good memories remind me that I can't make anymore good memories. Funny stories remind me there aren't going to be any new funny stories. Then I feel guilty for not being able to do what people want me to do and it just keeps piling up.

I'm ridiculous

Band-aids: Are You a Ripper or a Peeler?

I am not a band-aid ripper. I peek. I carefully lift the corner and slowly peel back part of it, just enough so I can see the wound. If I don't think it's ready, I'll replace it and wait a few more days. If it is, I'll slowly peel it the rest of the way off, fold it in half twice and toss it.

Right now, I'm living my life wrapped in a giant band-aid. It's amazing what the mind can do to protect itself from trauma. My mind has wrapped itself in a layer of fog via shock. It doesn't allow me to rip it off and confront the full severity of the wound, which is incredible. Right or wrong, this band-aid will not be ripped away in one fell swoop. It's going to be peeled back, layer by layer by layer until my mind and my heart are fully willing, able and ready to accept what happened. It's going to be a long, slow, painful process, but it will be the only way I'll be able to confront this and deal with it. Doesn't really work with the hustle and bustle of our society, does it?

My mom, on the other hand, is a ripper. She isn't a very sentimental sort, unlike me. She has already sorted through some of his clothes to donate, and tonight she threw away the leftover stuff from his office and his tea jug. "It makes it look like he is here, but he's not, so I'm throwing it away." I swallowed the lump in my throat and nodded and listened to the loud thunk the heavy glass jug made as it hit the bottom of the trash can. My mind was screaming at me to grab it and put it back, to tell her that's EXACTLY why it needed to stay, because it was his and it made it feel like he was still here. Each piece that we throw away is like taking an eraser and slowly blurring him into oblivion. It's like grabbing the edge of my shock layered band-aid and ripping it away from the wound before it's ready to be revealed. Everything in me screams to grab all of his things and hold them tight, refusing to let myself physically eradicate him from the world.

We visited my grandparents tonight. It was weird to see that box in front of their television. My dad is in that box. Originally, they had planned to buy the plot next to my dad on the tree ring his ashes are buried in. I found that idea to be extremely comforting. Should it really matter? Not really. It's not like that's him in the ground. But it was. The idea gave me a sense of security. It doesn't make sense, but there it is.

He had a visitor yesterday. One of my mom's friends visited his grave and said a prayer over it. She sent mom a picture of the tree ring, too. It's a very nice spot. It's under a tree and it's facing a bunch of trees. Dad always sat out in the back yard and watched the wind blow through the trees, so it was very fitting. We're going Wednesday to figure out his grave marker. I'm not looking forward to it. Visiting the funeral home and grave yard further tugs at that band-aid that I'm just not ready to remove.

Stupid

Everything right now is unpredictable. One minute I'm numb, the next minute I'm bawling, the next I'm expecting him to walk through the door and then I'm furious and it all leads back to crying in the end. It's ridiculous. This whole situation is ridiculous. A stupidly healthy, vibrant and lively man is not suppose to collapse. A face that smiled as widely as his should not exist in memories and pictures only. A strength and determination like his should not be defeated by something as stupid as a mass of veins. I haven't even begun to try to wrap my brain around how stupid and ridiculous and unfair all of this is.

I sound so immature right now, don't I? I sound immature and selfish. I am immature and selfish. That's what grief is. It's a selfish emotion that draws you inward and forces you to realize what you've lost and what you'll never regain. Everyone says to think of the good times and the memories, but you have to reach a certain point before that really does anything for you. You have to work against your biggest and worst enemy, your own self, to reach a point where you can do that. At least, I do. My mind is my biggest obstacle. My thoughts are the key pieces in my own spiral toward destruction.

I've spent most of my life fighting against myself. When you deal with depression, you spend most of your time fighting a war to win even a semblance of a functional life. Back in June I had finally freed myself from the shackles of anti-depressants. It was a huge victory for me, as I had spent more of my life on medication than off. The stigmas that come with needing an anti-depressant caused me so much grief growing up, and I hated myself for needing them, hated them for being needed. Getting off of them, I finally felt....normal. I felt like I finally wasn't broken anymore. I could function without them, I could get through things without them. I was finally sleeping like a normal person. That in itself was a huge accomplishment. It is something that I've always struggled with and I was absolutely thrilled that I no longer needed to take 3 Tylenol PM to even consider falling asleep, and that I woke up on my own before 5 pm the next day.

I don't sleep anymore. Getting out of bed is a challenge, and doing anything is a chore. I don't want to, I have no interest in moving. I make myself though. I force myself to put one foot in front of the other and continue. It sucks, and I hate that I have to fight this battle all over again. It's exhausting and stupid. That word keeps coming up, doesn't it? Stupid. Stupid, stupid, stupid, stupid.

It's really the only word that sums it up though. It sums up everything.

Hair Cut

It has been in the back of my mind that Native Americans  cut their hair as a symbol of mourning. I've been wanting to cut my hair for a while, but for the last few days the need has been pressing. My fingers have been itching to grab a pair of scissors and to hack away at the ends of my hair. So I did it. After twenty minutes, the deed was done. It is somewhat sloppy and uneven, but because it curls it isn't noticeable.

My hair tends to bear the brunt of my emotions. I change it when I'm happy, I change it when I'm sad and so on. It helps. The tiniest change can make such a difference. I felt like there was one less thing I needed to worry about after my hair was cut tonight.

My brain is so fuzzy. I can't remember anything to save my life. Someone can tell me something clearly and I'll have forgotten it by the time they finish talking. I don't know what I'm doing anymore. That's mild compared to the panic though. I keep having panic spells where I can't breathe, feel completely overwhelmed and I can't stop crying.

Everything is making me cry. Tonight I turned on Tangled and the scene with her parents releasing the lanterns, the one where her dad is crying, made me cry. That part has always made my heart hurt, but it was intense tonight. I know it isn't real, but I always want to hug him. I've always sympathized with the father figures in Disney movies. Even when I was little, the end of The Little Mermaid always left me feeling a little sad because she was leaving her daddy. The idea of cutting myself off from my father the way she did killed me. I've always assumed it connected to the close relationship I had with my dad.

The imaginings I had of the pain I would feel after watching that movie were nothing compared to the reality.

One Step at a Time

My parents have always wanted me to write. My mom has had grand dreams of me writing children's books and becoming a famous author, then buying her a new house with all of my new found wealth. I've finally decided to listen to her. Of course, this isn't a children's book called Way to Go, Bucko! (her chosen title for my venture in writing), but I suppose it's a start.

I'm getting off to a poor start here. I've deviated from the original subject, which is that picture above. That would be a picture of me and my dad. I kind of like him, can you tell? To this day, my chin still rested on top of his head. The easiest way to sneak in a hug was when he was sitting down watching TV. I'd come up behind him, wrap my arms around his neck and rest my chin on the top of his head. It was an easy way for me to remind him how important he was to me. In all my 27 years, no one has ever looked out for me the way my daddy has. No one has every put me first the way my daddy has. And no one will ever, ever take his place.

On October 31, he collapsed in his office around 4 pm. At 6:02 pm on November 1, he was declared dead. And now, here I am, trying to deal with the aftermath of losing my daddy, my best friend, my biggest supporter, my rudder, if you will.  He was the first person I would go to for advice and he would always offer up his honest opinion. It wasn't always what I wanted to hear, but it was what had to be said. He'd never try to make my decisions for me when I asked for help, he'd just try to steer me in the direction he felt was right. I didn't always take that direction well and that never tended to work out well. He'd be disappointed, but he would still be there, supporting me and helping me through it.

Of course, he also had a habit of making up answers when he didn't know the real one, and he would give you his nonsense answer with a completely straight face and sincere tone. I still had trouble telling the difference between the nonsense and the real answers sometimes.

I find myself now full of questions and there's no one there to feed me nonsense answers. I'm confronting the biggest test of my life, and there's no one there telling me that if I can't do this alone, they will be there to make sure I get through it. They will make sure I succeed. There is no possible way to effectively describe how all encompassing that pain is. It's so overwhelming and overpowering that I have yet to let myself face it fully. I don't think I can. I will get a taste of it from time to time in random moments of panic but I haven't fully addressed it yet. How do you address something you know nothing about when the central piece of your guidance system isn't there? Not that he would be much help with this. He lived 62 years and never lost anyone close to him. His dog was the biggest loss he ever had to face. For someone who was so happy and so humorous, I find that to be such a blessing. He never had to navigate these waters.

One of the random thoughts that crossed my mind after this was that he followed his dog. It's like those stories of people losing their loved one and then dying shortly after. It struck me as funny at the time. It probably makes no sense now. Maxwell died back in April, and he was so utterly and completely my dad's dog. I'm glad that Maxwell went first. He wouldn't have been able to survive losing dad. To be honest, I never thought I would be able to, either. Yet here I am. I'm surviving. I may be at a point where I consider just being upright and breathing easily a victory, but I am surviving.

I've been sort of talking through my grieving via Facebook, and really, no one cares on Facebook. It's not the place to vent and mourn. It isn't very satisfying, either. But writing is so much easier than speaking. I'm not good at articulating what I need or want to say. My brain works so much faster than my tongue and whatever I try to say usually ends up a jumbled mess. So I decided to turn here. This may be a much more successful venture for me. This way, no one has to read it unless they want to and I can still vent everything I feel I need to say. That's a big problem for me. If I don't say what I need to say, I get frustrated and I can feel it bottling up. This may get very frank as a result of that. I'm not going to hold back. I am hoping that maybe, just maybe, a daily note here will help me be able to better understand what exactly it is I am trying to navigate through. We'll have to see how this goes.