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.
Saturday, December 31, 2011
Saturday, December 24, 2011
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.
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.
Thursday, December 1, 2011
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.
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.
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