Lately I have been mulling over the fact that there were a lot of things my dad said over the years that we’re extraordinarily hurtful.

Grief therapy has been helpful in that it has guided me through the process of grieving over a very complicated death.

Many people told me when my dad died that I should be grateful that he did not have a complicated death – and that he died peacefully, he was ready, and tired.

So here’s the thing – his death was complicated for me.  Very complicated.  We loved each other very much – but we had a very prickly relationship.  We got along well for the most part in email.  He did not like the telephone, something I do happen to like.  He was not a person to text, and he has never been a person that liked a lot of people around so that meant when our entire family got together he wasn’t always happy to have us all around.  He tolerated it for mom’s sake.

And when we did see each other nine times out of 10 something would be said, feelings would get hurt, and we would be mad each other all over again.  This was a cycle of ours that repeated itself over and over for years.

I didn’t get a chance to really sit down with him and hash things out. To be honest I’m not sure if we would’ve had the opportunity to have that conversation – in my fantasy brain we would sit down and come to an understanding, a resolution of sorts, realized how much we love each other and,  been OK with how things are.

That didn’t happen.

What happened instead was my last interaction with my father was sitting in a community room at the nursing facility that he was that.  He was not happy that he was there – he felt that we were just shoving him away, but the reality was we needed help taking care of him and this was the best place for him to be – and we were all there with him loving him through the process of hospice.  As I was sitting there talking to my father we were exchanging words and he said “Am I your dad ”  I was taken aback – and I looked at him and said, “of course you’re my dad, even my dad for 52 years.”  He looked like he didn’t quite believe me  but nodded all the same.  I hugged him and give him a kiss and told him I would see him soon – knowing in my heart I probably wasn’t going to come back to this place to see him again.

There I said it.

I knew I wasn’t going to come back and see him again.  Maybe he knew that too..

Dear Dad,

Another season is upon us. The rains are here, the leaves have changed, and it doesn’t seem possible that nine months ago you left this place called planet earth. Nine months is a long time.

The length of a pregnancy which seems like it takes forever.
Grow 4.5 inches of hair.
Watch the Lord of the Rings Trilogy (Extended Edition) 532 times.
Read the Harry Potter series 168 times (on an average of 1.5 weeks per read through of the series).
Boil 36288 rounds of corn on the cob (on an average of 10 minutes per boil).
Get an average night’s rest of 9 hours 672 times.
Watch a butterfly appear from a cocoon after it makes it about 25.2 times.
Watch a reflux reaction react about…eh 6048 times.
Make a batch of moonshine.

Anyhow, I’m not really sure where the past nine months have gone. It seems like each day slides into the next and before I know it another month has gone by.

Pete my grief therapist tells me that everything I’m feeling is completely normal. Don’t rush the process, lean into your feelings, let the grief wash over you like a wave.

I still see you sometimes when I’m shopping in the store, at the bank, or in the city. My heart quickens and I find myself saying dad softly but knowing it’s really not you.

There was an older man at the store who was wearing Aqua Velva – I’d know that smell anywhere. He was standing in the vitamin aisle looking over vitamins. I purposely hung out near him because I just wanted to smell Aqua Velva. My eyes became wet and I felt the warmth of tears cascade down my face as I was smelling your cologne. This kind man was so aware – he turned and looked at me and asked me if I was OK. I nodded and found myself blubbering to this guy and telling him about you, and that you had died in January, and I didn’t get to say goodbye and I apologized for being a big fat hot mess. He smiled and reach down and hugged me Dad. For a second I thought I was hugging you. Then we parted ways and I thanked him for his kindness. I promptly went home and ordered a bottle of Aqua Velva from Amazon.

Now I can smell you anytime.

Some days when I’m cooking before I know it I’m picking up the phone and dialing home to call you to ask you about a recipe I’m trying, and then I realize you’re not there anymore. And I cry.

I’m still heartbroken that I can no longer remember what you sound like.

I miss you referring to me as number one.

It certainly is going to be a shitty Thanksgiving this year without you.

I love you dad. #1