Friday was one of those perfect days. It snowed the night before- just enough- the sun was shining, and the temperature mild. There was no wind so to speak of. I went into school, and at the last minute decided- "That's it! We're going sledding." Our school custodian rounded up the crazy carpets for me, and we had the best morning outside together. I remember thinking, "This is the stuff life is made of." (Cue Carolyn Arends: This Is the Stuff ). "Life's made up of little things... I need to notice...." It was around 10 my time, 8 Central time. 10:00 in PEI, 8:00 in Illinois.
Later that morning, as I was in the middle of a lesson, my phone started buzzing. And it continued to buzz. If it was a telemarketer, or a local caller, they would have phoned once and/or left a message, but this was multiple phone calls one after the other. I knew exactly what that meant. Dad had passed away.
It's been a long journey for him, one that has intensified in the last two months, but long. I'm glad it's over for him, but it's going to be so hard to move on without him, as, I am sure, anyone feels at the death of a loved one.
My Dad was one of the kindest, best men I've ever known. He taught me that once you give your word to do something, you do it. That it's more important to be kind, to think of others, to put yourself in their position. He would take a friend who had Alzheimers golfing, even though that friend wouldn't remember it. When asked why, he simply said, "I hope someone would do that for me." And I do hope someone did something like that for Dad, because if anyone deserved it, it was him (I am biased though, I know).
He also taught me that, if I got stopped for speeding, to make sure I told him before he heard it at work. Dad was a cop, and a good one. One of the first messages of condolence I received was from a high school friend whose husband started on the force on my Dad's shift. She told me how respected he was by the Department. That means the world to me.
Everything Dad did was for our family and for my Mom. He was a quiet worker, letting that speak for him. He loved to golf and play handball. He loved me and my brother, he loved my children. One of the last things Dad told me before he went into the hospital- how grateful he was to have Knox living with them. He loved Nathan, Grace, and Knox, and was always so proud of their success. He loved my husband, Tom, and welcomed him into the family as one of our own.
Bruce Springsteen has a song on his newest album, Letter to You. The whole project is one that I have on repeat- because the grief he works through on Letter to You is similar to my own. It's a grief that time gives us, the looking back at the past, and living into the future. The song is, "I'll See You In My Dreams"
The road is long and seeming without end The days go on, I remember you my friend And though you're gone And my heart's been emptied it seems I'll see you in my dreams
Oh Dad... In my dreams:
- we are at Daytona Beach and you are asking 5 year old me to go out by the waves so you can take a picture. But in reality, you're taking a picture of all of the bikini clad college girls on their spring break
-you are just coming home from work and I am making you a martini (it was the 70s, it was a different time...) or you have a Capri pizza... or you have donuts. It all depends on what shift you're working.
-you are the funniest guy in the room (at least I think so)
-you are locking your gun away, because you're off duty now and we never see it out unless it needs to be.
-you are calling a local patrol officer because I've been playing with your handcuffs and got them stuck on my leg. You can't find your key so you have to have someone come and unlock me.
-we are on our way to Florida in our family station wagon. It's a hot summer day and we have "4X4 window air conditioning", and your arm is propped up on the window.
I have so many memories to pull from, but for some reason, these are the ones that stand out to me.
Thank you for being the best example of what it means to be a Man. For loving your family. Your legacy will live on. Every day I do what I do because of you. I will remember you with tears, yes, but ultimately with a smile.
You passed away as my students were having the best of times in an unplanned sledding party. The beauty of that moment will stay with me forever.
I came to the woods to sit, and to think. My thoughts swirling around in my head like a martini, being shaken, not stirred.
My father is dying.
To be fair, he's been dying for a couple of years now, but it's the middle of the end. Not the beginning, not the end, but the never ending middle.
Things you know about death and dying are no longer theoretical when you are in this position, and no one can tell you what it's like until you get there.
Like how you're walking through a fog, but you're constantly aware. You don't register much, but then again, you register everything.
Like how you truly can compartmentalize. You can go to work, laugh, go for drinks, go out of town, live in the moment, and all of that, but it's ever so exhausting.
Like how you think you have it all under control, even if you carry all of your stress in your neck. (You just need a new pillow, right?) But one mis-worded text that is inconsequential can send you to the bathroom at work, sobbing. Then you have to tell your co-workers what's wrong, and you get their sorrow and sympathy- and that's the last thing you want. And now you're just embarrassed for over-reacting.
Like how you find out they're moving your dad to rehab, and your mom is over the moon excited. But all you can think is, still? The ups and downs, the ebbs and flows. Those are what both sustain and kill you at the same time.
No one can prepare you for how exhausting it all is. Because it goes on for so long, all of it just creeps up on you, and then it falls back into the shadows. But you know it's there, waiting to jump yet again. Over and over, in and out, back and forth. Constantly.
You still forge ahead, because life carries on. And you've got work to do.
