Missing My Dad

I need to write this post today. Not only to fill you in on why my posts lately have not been as upbeat as they regularly are, but also for my own personal healing. It’s not going to be easy and I’ve been dreading it, but here it is.

Last Friday on November 13th I lost my Dad.

My dear, sweet, larger than life Dad.

My entire life he has been there for me in every way possible. Like most little girls, I absolutely adored my Daddy, flaws and all.

And he loved me too. As his only child, I really was the light of his life. He was there to comfort me, to teach me and to lift me up anytime I needed him.

I have such vivid memories of his booming voice when he was being silly and his calm peaceful smile when he was happy.

I knew that he served in the U.S. Navy and even spent 3 months in Vietnam. Those days had a dark impact on him and he saw things that he wasn’t able to ever forget.

Prior to that I also know that he had an extremely tough upbringing and endured numerous traumatic experiences. But he persevered and grew up to be such a beautiful and kind soul.

As I began to grow into a sassy teenager, we still kept our strong bond. We used to spend summer afternoons enjoying long walks through a local wetland reserve before grabbing snow cones from the miniature golf course. We would spend hours going on bike rides together, just me and him. Even at the time I knew that those would be memories that I would cherish forever.

For the most part he was quite the homebody. Although one of my favorite days is when I surprised him with concert tickets to see two of his favorites downtown–Tim McGraw and Kenney Chesney. It was such a special night and we talked about it all the time.

He walked me down the aisle on my wedding day and we danced to Tim McGraw’s “My Little Girl” for the big father-daughter dance. For being a somewhat shy man who didn’t like much attention focused on him, he did great and I still can’t get over how sharp he looked in that tux.

He became such a doting grandfather to my two little boys. I’ll never forget when I went in to labor with Tristan, he came to the hospital in the afternoon and stayed there until the wee hours of the next morning to make sure that the delivery went okay and that we were both safe.

Both boys grew to love their silly Papa so, so much.

And oh how much he loved them!

I am still struggling to believe that there won’t be another Thanksgiving, Christmas, birthday or 4th of July together.

I can’t just pick up my phone and call him anytime I need to ask him how to fix something or just to hear his sweet comforting voice.

I had suspected that he was ill for the last two years. I urged and begged him to get in to the doctors and get the testing that he needed to get done. Even after a fall and a short hospital stay last summer, I think he was still in denial. So we carried on and I tried to ask about his health as much as he could stand it and hoped so much for the best. But I could see that my once vibrant Dad had started to fade.

I got the call this past Labor Day weekend that he had been taken to the hospital again. That is when he began to take his illness seriously. I still vividly remember the day I walked in the hospital room and he told me his diagnosis with tears flowing down his face. I told him that I had already known but I was confident that he still had a lot of fight left in him. He was such a strong warrior of a man!

But in early October his body started shutting down on him and he was put on home hopsice care. I still thought that we would at least have a few more months, maybe one more Christmas and one more birthday celebration? I spent hours in his room talking to him and enjoying some of his favorite foods with him. Cheeseburgers and McDonalds fish sandwiches were one thing that he could never refuse! Mentally I was soaking in as much as I possibly could, but I was also terrified about when I would have to say goodbye. So I sat by him day after day, each day feeling as helpless as the day before.

Last week is when I officially knew that the days were numbered. He seemed to have already gone to a different place. I held his hand, played him music and talked to him. Even though he could no longer speak he squeezed my hand and whispered out an “I love you too” for as long as he physically could whenever I told him that I loved him.

The morning that he left was the hardest day of my life. It was surreal, heartbreaking and angering. Even though I knew that he was no longer suffering, it was still so difficult to see him leave. The mortuary placed a single rose on his bed after they took him. It was sweet but so sad. Everytime I walked by I kept thinking that it should be him laying there, ready for me to walk in and hear about my day and have me ask him what I could get for him.

I wasn’t ready for him to leave. To be honest, I don’t think I ever would have been. I still feel like he was robbed of his life way too soon.

The days have gone by as if in slow motion. As an only child I have been trying to be strong for my mom who is completely shattered and lost, but when I am alone I am able to admit to myself that I’m not okay and I probably won’t be for a very long time.

I know that everyone goes through this at some point and that I will be alright one day, but there are times that I feel as if I’m never going to be able to feel joy again.

If you’ve made it all the way through this terribly written post and grainy photos I want to thank you so much for listening. I appreciate you all so much and I promise that I’ll still try to come around here as much as I can. I know that he would want me to find peace and happiness wherever possible and that’s exactly what this little old blog does for me.