Category Archives: Death

365 Days. 52 weeks. 12 months. 1 year.

Dad, Death

You know it’s weird. I have read so many different times and in so many different places that the first year after the death of someone you love just flies by. And now I’m living it, and they are right, it does fly by at the speed of light.

It’s been a year of mourning and grief. Some days are easier than others. But whatever learned about grief is that it just never goes away. About the time I think I have a handle on it it seems to creep in those cracks and crevices like mold or moss.

I realized that my dad’s death was harder on me than I could ever anticipate and because of that and everything else that’s going on in the world today I need to pause and be still for a while and just take the time to reflect and reassess a few things.

But I do want to remember my dad today – and I would love it if you would remember him with me.

A year ago today at 6:20 am PST my father Chuck left this planet to continue his journey on another plane. Sitting here thinking about him I am remembering the things I’ve been told over the years and would have come to know about him as an adult.

My Dad Chuck was born in North Dakota to a single mom by choice. She was ahead of her time. He would have been 80 last August. He was always Chuck – never Charlie and never ever Charles.

He met my mom in August of 1956, the first time she laid eyes on him he was on a motorcycle being a goofball. I think it was truly love at first sight. He said the first time he saw her he was smitten. In 1958 they married, and in September of 1959 he was drafted in the US Army and boy he was pissed. They are we would take him to Europe where his tour was in Germany.

By 1963 I came along, then in 1966 Lisa came on the scene, followed up by my brother Cris in 1968. I remember the day my brother was born – we were all so excited it was a boy, and our family was complete, and my father exhaled.

Life in our family like most families had its many ups and downs. Dad worked hard and played hard – his business was water and for the rest of his professional life revolved around fresh water irrigation systems, fresh water pumps, and the waste water industry.

He traveled a lot. Alaska was the place he spent the largest amount of his time. I can remember as a kid my mom loading us all in the car and those many trips to the airport waiting at the gate in great anticipation looking for him as he would walk up the gateway into the airport. We would run screaming, leaping into his arms and showering him with hugs and kisses. He was always happy to see us – but he was never home very long. Before we know it it was time to take him to the airport he was off on another adventure.

He and mom lived in their house on the lake for 27 years. So many memories are wrapped up in that house. Dad was an avid hunter and fisherman in his younger years. He really loved to travel and was a great photographer. What he really became was the most amazing cook ever. We would regularly exchange emails full of recipes. And any time I had a question about food he was my go to guy.

Dad loved to read, he loved historical novels and anything to do with World War II. I don’t think he was ever without a book. For as tough and crusty as he could be he had a heart of gold. He did a lot of volunteering for the senior services of King County. He would drive senior citizens to and from various appointments. He always lent an ear to his friends who needed help. He always tried to be a hard ass when I came to the animals but he sure loved his beloved Bombay cat, friend and companion “Thomas”. That cat originally was found for my mom but that cat turned into my dad’s cat 🙂

The center of his life revolved around my mom. He was married to her for 57 years. They were like peas and carrots with a dash of hot sauce thrown in for good measure.

God we loved him, we all loved him so fiercely and fondly referred to him as “The Lion” of our family.

A giant of a man has left our planet a year ago.

He is still loved so very much, and we will miss him every single day.

I love you Dad,

#1

Can I miss him and still be mad?

Death

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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..

 

 

 

 

 

Nine months

Death

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

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six months, 26 weeks, 182 days 

Death


Hey Dad,

It’s just me, it’s been awhile.

You know I think about you almost every day. I wonder how you are. I wonder where you are. I wonder what you’re doing. But most of all I wonder and hope you are happy and safe.

It doesn’t seem possible to me that it’s been six months, 26 weeks, 182 days that you’ve left planet earth. I’m not sure where the time has gone. But the days and seasons just keep passing by rolling into the other.

So here’s the thing dad, I’m not feeling very prolific or creative today. I don’t have any eloquent words to describe what life has been like since you died. In many ways it’s been very different but in many ways it’s been very much the same. I worry because I realize I have forgotten what your voice sounds like, or what you smell like.
In fact, the last time I was at moms I actually went and stood in your closet. I pressed my face against your clothes to smell you in hope I could smell the faint trace of your cologne. I looked at all your stuff on your dresser and I felt in many ways like an intruder as I ran my hands over your things. Just knowing that your hands touched what my hands touched gave me some comfort.

I saw and felt your ashes. It’s hard for me to wrap my head around the fact that you were once this larger than life man that used to comfort and scare the hell out of me at the same time. To see your physical body reduced to a seven pound sack of white ashes is crazy to me.

Some days I’m still really troubled and incredibly sad about a lot of stuff surrounding your death. Other days I’m at peace with it all and have the philosophy that it is what it is. Most days however, when I think about you I’m wistful and have a smile on my face as I find myself chuckling about something you might’ve said.

All I can tell you Dad is that grief is complicated. I wish I had been brave enough to sit down with you and asked you what you went through when your mother died. I wish I had been brave enough to talk to you about feelings – to get down to the nitty-gritty with you and be vulnerable. But I didn’t because you and I just didn’t do that. 
We had this understanding I guess, you and I.

You know Dad, all three of us have really circled the wagons and we are taking care of mom with great joy. You’d be so proud of all of us dad. You be the proudest of Mom.

She’s a goddamn trooper. A goddamn trooper. That woman has exhibited some of the most amazing strength I’ve ever seen in a human. She saw me through a pretty horrific surgery and faced head on the fact that not only had she lost her best friend of 60 years that her oldest kid almost bit the bullet twice. And she keeps on going.

Lisa and Cris have been not only her but my biggest supporters as well. There’s this strength within our family that has always been there but has really shown itself over the past six months. I’m just so grateful for that.
We are thriving. I think that’s what I want you to know the most. If anything can give you peace of mind it would be to know that we are OK, in fact, I think it’s safe to say that we are good.

The music Nick is making I hope reaches all the way up through the ethers for you to hear. He’s working so hard at his craft. I know that college and universities never really impressed you but I can’t help but think you would’ve been so damn proud to know that he was accepted into Stanford for music at 15. He’s taking up an interest in organs which made me really smile because I know that that was your instrument of choice. And Dad! He really likes a girl from school. As you would’ve said “He’s got it bad!” It’s so sweet to watch. He’s growing up into a fine young man.
Today dad I wish that I was nine years old again in the Sears store in Seattle.

I wish that I was walking by your side once again going through the bike department and hearing you ask me which one of the bicycles I like the best. And thinking you were crazy for asking me that because we just had a conversation the day before about the fact you didn’t think it was safe for me to be riding a bike on the streets of Seattle. Ha!!

Do you remember dad the look on my face when I pointed out shyly the turquoise spider bike with the sissy bar, bell and banana seat? Especially when you looked at the clerk and said “We’ll take that one, wrap it up!” I don’t think I loved you more at that moment than I ever have. I remember clearly you smelled of Aqua Velva and cigarettes and hearing you say to me “Happy birthday daughter!”

That’s going be something I remember for the rest of my life.

I miss you dad, and I love you.
#1

4 months. 22 weeks. 156 days.

Death

It’s been awhile since I’ve posted. Part of that has been purposeful. Part of it not so purposeful. 

I made an impromptu totally spontaneous day trip to see my mom. I haven’t seen her in awhile at least a month.

You know it was good, creepy and comforting to see, look, touch, and feel my dads ashes today. I haven’t seen what was left until today. It was mind numbing to think my big, tall, 200 pound father who was larger than life to me could now fit into a little box. 

But he did.

It was something I needed to do. 

His ashes were white and the consistency of the pale white sands of Maui, and I will think of my father every time I’m in Maui walking in the soft sand. 

It’s been 4 months since my father died.

It’s been 22 weeks since my father died.

It’s been 156 days since my father died.

Some say this is closure.

I say there will never be closure.

I just think it’s part of healing.

It’s weird – now when I encounter the elderly….

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I wonder how much longer they’ve got on planet earth.

I want to hear all of their stories, soak up all of their wisdom, and just be present with them in that moment.

I wonder if they have a family.

I wonder if they have any friends left.

I wonder if they love their family and if their family loves them.

I wonder if they’re healthy or if they’re sick.

I wonder if they realize they are on borrowed time.

  

Rituals, Rememberance, Closure ( if there is such a thing ).

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For whatever reason my father didn’t have a funeral or memorial. In his younger years he used to talk about having a funeral but as he got older, and I think watching those around him, attending a few of his friends funerals, and many long discussions with my mom he just said to hell with it. So, he did not have a viewing, no memorial, no funeral and he was cremated. His ashes have been returned to my mom and that’s that.

This created a problem for me. I wasn’t there when he died. I didn’t get to see his body after he died. There was no wake, there was no ritual. And I have come to the closest person that thrives on rituals. Isn’t that weird what you discover yourself during a life-changing event?

So, while I respect his last wishes a lot about his death left me with many unanswered questions. Many circles were not closed for me. In essence, I really didn’t have any closure- if there is such a thing.

Each year, I go to a place in my city called the Grotto.  This place is actually The National Sanctuary of our Sorrowful Mother, popularly known as The Grotto. It’s a Roman Catholic outdoor shrine and sanctuary located in the Madison South district of Portland, Oregon, United States.  The cool part about it is it doesn’t matter what faith you are is just a very cool place to go and sit, reflect and think. 

It’s extraordinarily peaceful.

I go each year and light a candle for my brother-in-law who was tragically lost his life in a car accident many years ago when he was 17. I didn’t know him unfortunately, so when I began dating his brother, who is now my husband, I began to think about ways of honoring his memory. When I learned about the grotto, after the first time I visited and saw that you could light a candle in memory of a loved one I begin lighting a candle and saying a silent prayer every time I visited.

It’s no secret I’ve been having a really hard time. I have begun grief therapy. I started this blog to journal about my feelings. But there’s just something missing other than the fact that my dad is dead and he’s never coming back. I knew that I was struggling with the fact that there was no closure but I couldn’t figure out how to fix that. 

And then yesterday happened.

Typically, we go to the grotto around Christmas time. This year we didn’t have that opportunity because my dad was really sick and it was a bad time, and we just didn’t get the time to go. So yesterday after lunch my husband said Hey, why don’t we go out to the grotto today, I know you want to look for something for my mom because it’s her birthday and why don’t we just go.” So we did, and I said “We should light a candle for your brother.”  We all agreed upon that and then there was this silence. It wasn’t awkward we were all just quiet. Like they were waiting for me to say something.

After a minute or two it dawned on me that I could get some sort of closure here at the grotto. My eyes became wet and the tears just silently fell down my face as I stood by my husband who took my hand and I figured out what I wanted to do. I asked the boys if they would get me not one candle but two candles. And they nodded and said of course we will.

I lit the candle and placed it in the holder and felt the first start of closure.

Here’s remembering you dad. I love you.

  

I’m so sorry for your loss…or something like that.

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I know, right? 

It’s kind of like at Kroger or Whole Foods when they ask you if you’ve found everything all right?  

It’s expected, they are supposed to ask.

I hate I’m so sorry for you loss. It’s not like I lost my car keys, my wedding ring, or a gold bracelet. 

I’m really sorry would just suffice. There’s really nothing else to say.

A month, 4 weeks, 30 days, 720 hours, 43,200 minutes…

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Hey Dad, it’s me –  
It’s been a month, 4 weeks, 30 days,  720 hours, 43,200 minutes. You get the idea.

God we miss you. All of you. The good and bad. I want to know so many things.

Did dying hurt? Were you scared? Are you okay? Do you finally believe we all love you? Even now that you’re dead? What do you do now with your time?  Do you see us? Do you watch mom when she sleeps?  Can you read our thoughts? If you can I am sorry for thinking angry thoughts about you. 

When I close my eyes and think about you it’s with a cup of iced coffee, a cigarette, and sweat dripping off your face because you’re working outside on one of your many projects.

What have you missed? A lot and nothing. 

Mom seems to be hanging in there, she’s a trooper. She’s remembering you when you as  whole and healthy. That makes me happy. My siblings seem to be doing okay but to be completely honest I have’r really asked lately and I need to be better at that.

I don’t sleep well dad. My sleep is interrupted with dreams of you. My anxiety is on high alert, and my mind is experiencing a fog.

Spring will be here shortly, another season.

The deal is whether we like it or not life is going forward. Time is marching on and I can’t stop it no matter how hard I try.

I can’t remember what your voice sounds like anymore. I look at your photo everyday because I never want to forget what you look like. I fond myself mid-dial calling you to ask about preparing chicken and then realizing you were no longer here.

I just miss yo Dad. All of you. 

It’s been a month, 4 weeks, 30 days, 720 hours, 43,200 minutes. You get the idea.