Growing up my dad occasionally worked the night shift. Through my child perspective, it was awesome. It was the only time I was allowed to sleep in my parents’ bedroom at nighttime. Their bed seemed massive and luxurious, and it was a special treat for me when those nights popped up on the calendar. I would always sleep on my dad’s side – keeping it warm until he arrived back home.
When I crawled into bed next to my mom the night my dad passed, I couldn’t help but think back to my little girl self. Borrowing my dad’s side of the bed was always such a joy. But tonight, there was no joy.
It felt wrong to be lying on my dad’s side of the bed; wrong to be lying on his pillow; wrong to be seeking warmth from a comforter that should be comforting him right now. My brother was in his old room and my sister, the room we used to share. It was the first time in decades we all slept under our parents’ roof and everything about the experience felt off. My dad was our center and without him, we were all off balance.
My dad was our center and without him, we were all off balance.
The next several days were spent having surreal conversations and making heart-aching decisions about the funeral and casket, the church service and wake, “his article” and words of remembrance. I found myself compartmentalizing a lot; a skill I grew quite expert at raising four boys and working full time. It was a familiar tool and one I leaned on a lot to stay sane. When we were all together planning, many times I felt like I was stoic with my emotions – going through motions and helping to make decisions one after an excruciating other.
Driving home each night after full days with my mom, brother and sister, or after the kids left for school in the morning – now those were the times that I let myself just lose it with emotion. Those were the moments when it really sunk in that my dad was gone. Selfishly, I kept thinking about everything he was going to miss – every life moment he was not going to experience with our family. He wasn’t going to see our boys grow up; he wasn’t going to see what becomes of my new life stage; he wasn’t going to be there for every special occasion or random day of the week. He wasn’t going to be on the other line to talk about one of the boys’ first loves or heartbreaks, their first job, first car or inevitably, first phone. He wouldn’t see what they achieved in school or sport, what path they took, and twist they encountered. He would never know the men they would turn out to be, give advice when needed, or be a phone call away to laugh about some absurdity from the day. I couldn’t stop thinking with rapid succession about every single moment I knew he would never experience again.
He was never going to see the blooms from the new trees that lined our driveway even though he promised he’d be there for their full glory.
He was never going to see the blooms from the new trees that lined our driveway even though he promised he’d be there for their full glory.
It was overwhelming. I couldn’t wrap my head around the gravity of what just happened; it was all too much.
Our four year old asked when Papa would be done being dead.
Our six-year-old wondered why Papa would feel cold and hard. He asked how he would be put under ground and for how long.
Our eight-year-old hung on to “Ghosty,” the last thing Papa got for him, while anxious about what to do if he cried in front of his friends.
Our ten-year-old in disbelief that his Papa would no longer be a staple in the stands; unsure how Heaven worked, or if it did.
All of them uneasy with their feelings of giddiness for getting new suits and shoes, and finding out they’d be driving in a limo, knowing somewhere in their gut that shouldn’t make them happy.
I gave myself time to crumble in private, and then put my compartmentalization hat on once planning started again. We were together every day leading up to the funeral. It felt like there was no other place we should be. We were there for each other and each of us stepped forward and took on different roles seamlessly and without fanfare. And as we stepped up for my dad, so too did every single person who was impacted in some way by my dad. Those days we were overwhelmed with such an outpouring of love from so many family members, my friends, my sister’s and brother’s friends, our colleagues, my parents’ friends and neighbors and my dad’s teammates. It was incredible. There was so much love and support, such incredible compassion pointed to each of us.
There were phone calls and texts, visits and flowers and cards; a bracelet and a photo memorialized in the stained glass of an angel’s heart.
A photo memorialized in the stained glass of an angel’s heart.
And the food – there was so much food. And (not to worry) not a morsel of it went to waste. There was pasta and pizza and salad; sandwiches and casseroles; cookies, cannolis and cakes. It was abundant and beautiful and constantly arriving. The outpouring of food deliveries was such a perfect representation of who our entire family surrounds ourselves with, and mostly importantly, who my dad did. It all happened because of my dad. My dad was beloved by so many, and we had the absolute benefit of experiencing that concentrated love radiate our direction too.
My dad was beloved by so many, and we had the absolute benefit of experiencing that concentrated love radiate our direction too.
We wanted to make dad proud and show up the best we could for him too, which, in part, was why it was so important that the wake and funeral were as perfect as could be. We thought about each decision through my dad’s eyes; every detail was decided together. We wanted the frames just right, all of the kids’ suits and dresses, the slideshow and his belongings, the readings, music and location; the food, wine and toasts – all just right. My brother often remarking that everything should be “thoughtfully placed” – so much so that I couldn’t help but laugh when I heard it; I suppose to help from uncontrollably crying instead.
I asked for one favor.
The first week of January the universe allowed for our son’s birthday never to touch the day my dad passed away. Forever those dates will be different and apart – the third versus the fourth. The second week of January I wished the same for our soon-to-be-six-year-old. Our son’s sixth birthday was exactly one week after we said goodbye to my dad, and selfishly I did not want my son’s birthday to fall on the same day as a celebration for my dad for which none of us ever wanted. I couldn’t take that light away from him, just like I willed it into existence the week prior.
I’ll forever be grateful that everyone agreed and those dates will remain different and apart too – the eleventh versus the twelfth and thirteenth.
Just like at the hospital the week before, I felt guilty leaving to celebrate. But I did; and this time, it was my mom who wouldn’t have it any other way. I arrived home before the school bus did and walked into a house filled with birthday joy. Decorations set, candles out, ice cream cake en route, pizza dough rising, presents wrapped and ready to go.
My husband did it all – again. Another week off balance he took the reins to create as much stability as he could. Another week never having to ask for what he knew I needed. Another moment to fall in love again with a man for whom I am grateful I got to choose.
Another week off balance he took the reins to create as much stability as he could. Another week never having to ask for what he knew I needed. Another moment to fall in love again with a man for whom I am grateful I got to choose.
I feel guilty about it, but I don’t remember much about that night. I don’t remember Face-timing with my mom, I don’t even remember taking any pictures. I couldn’t tell you what we (*aka, my husband) got him for his birthday. I just remember feeling absent. My mind was elsewhere. I was thinking about what I was going to say, and how I was going to possibly keep it together long enough to say the words I wrote about my dad. It was on my mind all week. It was a daunting ask but one I embraced; I had to.
The next day, celebration complete, we started the one for which none of us ever wanted. Standing there, near frozen, I gave myself permission to pause. I centered myself. Eyes staring directly at me, waiting for me, heartbroken for me, yet willing me to be ok. I stared at my dad’s casket; trying desperately to pull myself together so I could honor him – respect him, and love him as best I knew how. Eventually an exhale, and release.
It was near impossible to describe my dad’s impact because it permeated every single aspect of our lives. As I wrote, reflected, and cried, over and again, I kept returning to how thankful I was for the totality of the relationship we had. There were an infinite number of stories that I could have shared, and what I was so grateful for is that I reflected about all of those with my dad.
We shared in the laughter of the memories and the ridiculousness of some of the situations. We talked about our frustrations and annoyances, sometimes our anger and sadness about the thing that happened too. Most importantly and most often though, we just talked. Nothing was left unsaid. And we laughed. He made us laugh All Of The Time. It was ridiculous the things he would say…so direct, poignant, absurdly true and hilarious. He made light of tough situations – not to misdirect or misconstrue, but to make everyone feel at ease. It was his super power.
I know how lucky I was to have experienced life with my dad; he was part of its fabric. And that is the forever gift I fully embraced the night before when I finished the words I chose to speak aloud to remember my dad. That is the gift I will selfishly take away from the night of my son’s sixth. I may not have remembered his gifts, but I will always remember the one I gave myself.
That is the gift I will selfishly take away from the night of my son’s sixth. I may not have remembered his gifts, but I will always remember the one I gave myself.
Now, nearly four months later our family’s foundation remains cracked. There’s no changing that devastating reality. My dad is gone, and it will always be hard to live with such a cruel truth.
The heartbeat though, the heartbeat of our family is coming back. The cadence without him here is different, but its strength is showing itself again. My dad set us up to thrive; he has our entire life, and that is where I know the strength manifests.
In the hospital room my dad whispered to me. He asked that I look out for him, to see him in the driveway blooms that would eventually show their full glory from the trees lining our drive. He was going to be there; he promised. My dad never breaks a promise, and never has that been truer than today. XoXo
In the hospital room my dad whispered to me. He asked that I look out for him, to see him in the driveway blooms that would eventually show their full glory from the trees lining our drive. He was going to be there; he promised. My dad never breaks a promise, and never has that been truer than today. XoXo