Tag Archives: passing

If your dad died…

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If your dad died I just want to say to you I’m just so sorry. Really I am but the truth is there are no good words that are going to help you right now or bring you comfort, because frankly regardless of what kind of relationship you had with your dad – when your father dies it just fucking sucks.

My dad died January 20th, 2016. We knew this day would come we just didn’t expect it to be that soon I guess – but really are you ever prepared for the death of a parent? I know I wasn’t.

I used to think that moving into your own place, buying your first car, getting married, having a child, your first job – all of those things are all about being a grown-up. However, I don’t really think I became a true grown up until I lost a parent. I had so many what the fuck moments after my dad died that it’s impossible to keep track of all of them now.

My father‘s death was complicated. Maybe not so much for him – I believe he died very peacefully without struggle. At least I was told he didn’t appear to have struggled, and looked very peaceful in death.

For me what was complicated was that I don’t feel like everything that needed to be said was in fact said. I think that when I reflect upon his death there were a lot of things that were left unsaid. And I hope he’s not struggling with that piece of this like I am.

So what am I left with now? He’s dead and there’s not a goddamn thing I can do about it. I just hope wherever he is he is at peace, he’s happy, and loving himself.

Life goes on for those who are left and what’s my blowing is how fast the time goes by at least for me – I can’t speak for my mom or my siblings.

There are things that I’m starting to forget which makes me very sad – like the way he sounded when he said my name. Or the way he used to call me number one from Star Trek. The way he smelled – he was old school and he wore aqua Velva and in the days that he smoked the combination of aqua Velva and cigarette smoke with just so my dad.

Our family is very different now – I wouldn’t have admitted it or year ago but now that we are going on your two I feel comfortable in saying that our family dud not disintegrate, fall apart, or become disenfranchised. We have all come together as a solid unit cleaving to one another and it’s been incredible.

I sometimes wonder if my dad is sad about that. And I hope he’s not.

But if your dad has died today again I’m really sorry and I’m just gonna prepare you for some really sad days ahead – lots of time for reflection – a lot of tears on those first birthdays, holidays and other important days that you will be remembering your dad on. But I’m going to tell you there is another side to this – and you’ll get to it. It does get better – you’ll always remember him regardless if he was the son of a bitch or not – but he was still your dad. And it’s really OK to love and miss him.

20 months. Is that even possible.

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Dad- I feel like an asshole. I promised myself and you that I’d write here regularly. I didn’t want to forget. I wanted to remember. But like most things in my life the idea is great but the follow through isn’t always fabulous. You know those good intentions.

If I’m being honest – perfectly honest I fool myself sometimes that you’re not really truly dead. Like today for example. And then I’ll think about you- something you said or did and I’ll have to stop and say okay he’s really gone, and he’s not coming back.

I’m sorry I haven’t been coming here regularly. I guess this is kind of like a gravesite of sorts.

The first year the flowers or rocks appear all the time and as more time passes the visits get less and less.

Is that the way it’s suppose to be?

It doesn’t seem like it’s been 20 months, sometimes it feels like 20 minutes and I can’t breathe.

And today there was a little sun.

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I spoke with a bereavement (better known as grief) counselor today.  Her name was Jaquelyn, and she was very kind.  When I first heard her voice I thought I was talking to someone in their early 20’s — and she could have been for all I know.  That I guess doesn’t matter.

Her words were wise beyond how young she sounded and for the first time in the past three weeks I felt a little lighter, my chest wasn’t as heavy, and I didn’t feel like every time I thought about my father and opened my mouth at the same time that I would sob.

We talked about a lot of things that led of to my father’s death.  Things that happened to me and how that has affected me since June of 2015.  As we talked about them Jaquelyn brought to my attention that these were all classified as losses of some sort – some small, some large, but they were losses.

We then talked about the last conversation I had with my dad.  He wasn’t happy where he was.  He said that the place was killing him when the reality was he was dying right before our eyes.  Dementia had begun and he wasn’t our dad anymore.  That was such a hard pill to swallow. I had asked my father what I could do to help him as he was so unhappy and he simply said “Please love me.”  and my eyes got wet and brimmed with tears and I said “Oh Dad, of course I love you, we all love you.” He then looked at me with his blue blue eyes and said “Please really love me”.  I once again said, “Dad we just love you so much.”

He then paused and tilted his head to one side like he always did when he didn’t believe what I was telling him and he said “Am I your dad?”  That took me aback, and I said “Of course you are my Dad, you’ve been my dad for 52 years!” and then he just looked at me and gave me a half smile.  It was time to go and so I kissed him and hugged him and never saw him again.

I wasn’t there when he died.  But I am told he had a gentle and peaceful passing.  “Not a wrinkle in his face” I had heard several times. I didn’t have the opportunity of seeing him right after he died and I will regret that to my own dying day, I wish I had seen him.

I had no closure.

The next morning around the same time that he had died that morning before I woke up with a start.  Someone was standing by the side of my bed.  I thought at first it was my mom, as I had said to her if she needed me to come get me I didn’t care what time.

But no, it was my Dad.  He was just standing there. No flowing robes, no angels, no music, nothing ethereal at all – it was just him in a pair of Khaki shorts and one of his normal button of summer shirts.  The only thing I noticed was he looked very healthy, and his arms were smooth.  There were no bruises, his skin wasn’t mottled.  There were no scabs, scars, no marring.  Just smooth and healthy.  I said to him in disbelief “Dad! What is going on?  Why are you here?”  And he just said:

“I’m fine, I’m really fine.”

I had a tough time catching my breath, but I managed, “How did you get here?  What are you doing here?  Dad!?”  and he once again just said very serenely “I’m fine, I am really fine.”  I jumped up to hug him, and to kiss him, and to just be near him and as I went to hug him I hugged the air, he was gone in an instant.

I made three giant steps to where my mom was sleeping and said very excitedly “Oh God, Mom, did Dad come see you, he was just here, I saw him.”  And then I recounted my experience and marveling over his arms and face that were so smooth.  We both were really leaning to having seen him – I truly felt his presence.

Anyhow, I am relaying this to this bereavement counselor and she says to me, “It sounds like your father had a very peaceful passing, and maybe he came to see you to tell you that he was fine, and he knew you loved him after all.”

I thought about this for a moment and then felt my chest relax, my neck relax, the bile in the back of my throat subside, my breathing relax, my back relax.  And I didn’t feel like sobbing.

The idea that my father died thinking he wasn’t loved was just too much for my mind, body, and spirit to handle and hearing her say that he probably knew was truly what I needed to hear.  And I am going to cleave to that every time I feel horrible, I am going to remember her words.

So for today I felt a little bit of sun peak through that veil of mourning, depression, and grief.

It’s been three weeks, actually 22 days.