Jun. 7: Five years past

It was five years ago today that my dad died, and as every year since then, I did my best to honor him. Today it meant eating dessert when I didn’t need it. Oh, who am I kidding? I never really need dessert. But neither did he. ‘Twas fair.

There’s one thing I’ve thought about this year more than others since Dad’s been gone, and it’s this: I’m glad he’s not here to see me going through this cancer thing. It’s not that I’m glad he isn’t here at all, but watching him watch me would be tough on all of us. He never dealt with illness well, but the big, serious stuff really freaked him out, especially when it happened to me or Kathy. I think this would be very difficult for him.

And I guess it’s because he had so little control over his emotions—especially when they induced tears—that I have more concern for how he would be if he were here than for, say, my mom or Kathy, who are actually here and are actually having to go through this with me. I know it’s hard for them, but I also know that they understand themselves enough that they’re able to manage their feelings.

I like to think of Dad up there with Mickey Mantle—his idol—bending his ear and annoying the hell out of him… not watching me fight for my life. Maybe he knows that everything’s going to be OK so there’s nothing to worry about, that it’s fine for him to take his eyes off us for a moment or two. Maybe he’s made a deal with the Dude. Who knows; maybe he’s watching me from down below. Or maybe he’s in a little box on top of my china cabinet, like he’s been for a while now, and that’s that.

Wherever he is, I carry him in my heart. I still think of him every day, I miss him every day, I wish he was here every day. But I have to say that in five years the physical ache of missing him has subsided. Time definitely makes a difference. Everyone assured me of that five years ago, when I felt raw and fragile and half-orphaned, but I couldn’t grasp it then. Now I can. Time helps. And memories don’t have to fade. Neither does our love for the important people we’ve lost. But over time that heaviness, that sense of abandonment, starts to disappear. We begin to feel that going on without that person—as tough as it may be and as much as we may not want to—is really possible.

So, five years without Dad have gone by and for the first time I feel like I’m NOT constantly fighting back tears while I mosey on through the everyday-ness of my life. Oh, the tears come—above it all, I’m still a girl who misses her daddy. But I know that happiness follows, and I’ve discovered that it’s easier (for me) to let the tears flow and just-keep-swimming, just-keep-swimming, just-keep-swimming.

It feels healthy.

Which is, ironically and strictly speaking, what I am not.

When Kathy and I were putting together the slide show for Dad’s memorial service, she couldn’t get the words out for a couple days to tell me why she so treasured this picture of Grandpa Curt lovin’ on two-year-old Katie:

When she was finally able to say so, she explained, “It’s like Dad is comforting Katie, saying, ‘It’s okay, sweet girl. I love you. I’m here. It’ll be alright.’”

Oh, how I cherish that idea, especially right now. Dad’s lovin’ on us as we fight my cancer, and he’s assuring me and Mom and Kathy: “It’s okay, sweet girls. I love you. I’m here. It’ll be alright.”

Dad, you are missed. You are loved. You are remembered. You are in our hearts.