Jun. 7: Another anniversary

I wrote this in 2007, on the two-year anniversary of my dad’s untimely death. I just re-read it and feel that it still applies in almost every way. Rather than write a new remembrance of him this year—I honestly don’t think I have it in me—I’m tweaking this one a bit. Sorry for the re-run, Dad, but it’s new and improved, if that helps.

It’s been four years now, and June 7 is still remembered as the worst day of my life thus far. I hate the changes that have come about since Dad’s been gone. I always have extras now when we distribute the kids’ school pictures or copies of studio portraits. Our family buys far fewer Father’s Day cards. There’s one less thing to stress over when it comes to gee-what-do-I-get-the-dads-for-Christmas—but what I wouldn’t give to still have that stress.

I don’t know how else to explain it except to say I feel broken. It’s like the place in my heart that was reserved just for Dad burst when he died. But that’s life now—and no, it’s not the same without him, and I doubt we will ever completely get used to him being gone. I still think “I need to call Dad...” way too often. He’s missed out on so many things, so many birthday parties and holiday dinners and school functions and those infamous advice-offering phone conversations he loved. The annual selection of his new car. A presidential election he would have followed closely and been furious over in the end. He’s missed two new James Bond movies (one good one), and watching “Pirates” with Jack. He’s missed so many Yankees games.

He has missed out. But most of all, we have missed him.

Kathy’s and my best friends have both lost their fathers since we lost ours. Unfortunately, we have learned very little about how adoring daughters are supposed to survive this painful phase; in fact, four years later we still sometimes feel like the news is brand new. I found this quote that gives us a tiny bit of simple hope that we are not suffering in vain, even though we’re still struggling to find a lesson in our grief.

“If you learn from your suffering,
and really come to understand the lessons you were taught,
you might be able to help someone else
who is now in the phase you may have just completed.
Maybe that’s what it’s all about after all.”
—Source Unknown

One thing Kathy and I discovered in these four years is that everyone grieves in very different ways and often on very different timelines. More than anything, we now know that there’s no such thing as a “normal” grief process. Really, whatever we feel is “normal.” And so I close with this quote, in the hope that it might possibly be a comfort to others when they come upon similarly difficult anniversaries.

When Does Grief End?

Grief hits us like a ton of bricks,
Flattens us like a steamroller,
Hurls us into the depths of despair.
We know in a flash when grief hits,
But when does it end?
Like the month of March,
Grief rushes in like a lion,
And tiptoes out like a lamb.
Sometimes, we don’t know when grief leaves,
Because we don’t let go of the lion’s tail.
Why do we hold on so long?
Grief offers us safety,
Protection from the world.
We don’t want to let go
Because we secretly fear
That we’ll forget our loved ones,
And we don’t want to forget—ever.
We don’t want to let go
Because we fear the future
And having to face life without our loved ones.
We don’t want to let go
Because we make the mistake
Of measuring our grief with the depth of our love—
When neither has anything to do with the other.
How do we know when grief has run its course?
How do we know when we’ve grieved enough?
Cried enough?
“Died” enough?
How do we know when it’s time to let go of the tail?
We know when we feel joy again, in something or someone.
Joy in living. Joy in life.
We know when we wake up in the morning
And our first thought is on something other than our loss.
We know when we look ahead with a smile
And back with fond memories,
And when we no longer dread the nights.
We know when our life starts filling up with new interests and people,
And we start reaching for the stars.
Grief ends when we let go of the tail.

—Margaret Brownley, Bereavement Magazine, Jan/Feb 2002

Kathy, I’m thinking of you a whole bunch today. And I speak for us both when I say we’re thinking of you a whole bunch today, too, Lori, April, Tina and Jocelyn. We are all sisters in this grief.

But most of all, I want to say this to my dad, who hopefully has a good Internet connection on his cloud (or fiery lawn chair): For a long time I was afraid I would forget you or stop missing you, until I realized that neither of those things will ever happen, even if I wanted them to. Not a day goes by that you aren’t in my thoughts. I miss you and love you so very, very much.

 

P.S. Every year I ask my friends to do something simple to commemorate my dad. I offer the following suggestions this year; they all involve food, so it shouldn’t be difficult. These were some of Dad’s favorites, and if you indulge today, please do it as a shout-out to Curt:

• Oreos, preferably Double Stuf
• anything from Hickory Farms, and lots of it
• Crème brûlée
• Filet mignon
• Big Mac
• Cheesecake
• Potato salad, if it’s as good as his sister’s
• any of the saltiest cured meats

Kind of a wonder eating all that crap didn’t kill him, huh?