A Father-less Father's Day
This day has been bittersweet for the last 7 years but today it is bittersweet on an entirely new level.
Since losing Logan, Father’s Day has been hard. It was difficult to watch my husband navigate the day with one of his children absent. It was difficult each year writing card after card, having both kids make their mark (usually something indecipherable but adorable) and then simply signing Logan’s name below his sibling's scribbles. We would create pictures with footprints and mugs with handprints, but one set was always missing.
But over the years the “sweetness” of Father’s Day gradually began to outweigh the “bitterness.” It was still a difficult day, as the weight on the painful side of the scale never ceased, but in a way just stopped feeling quite so heavy. It was lightened by the gratefulness I felt by having two living, healthy and beautiful children and became more tolerable as we found an ever-growing and loving community to help counterbalance the weight.
Eventually, Father’s Day became more “happy with pockets of sad,” instead of “sad with pockets of happy.”
But in 2017, after receiving the devastating terminal diagnosis of my dad, that same scale of bitter vs. sweet … joy vs. pain … happiness vs. sorrow … started to shift once again. I realized the number of Father’s Days I would get to physically spend with MY father were suddenly and unexpectedly vanishing before my eyes. But for the time being, he was still there and the blessing of his presence brought forth a new sweetness that had been with me all along - I just hadn’t noticed it as much before.
Today … he is not here.
And today, it feels like someone dropped a truck-sized cinderblock on the painful side of the scale. The impact jolted me up in the air. It left me dangling from the upended side - legs flailing and hands hanging on in a feeble attempt not to plummet down and cross over to the side that sorrow controlled. Inevitability, my grip failed and I found myself sliding across the threshold and wondering if I would ever find my way back to the other side.
It was very similar to sitting on a see-saw at recess as a kid. I felt stable with my feet planted firmly on the ground. I was comfortable there, as I looked up at grief with its legs dangling helplessly in the air. I couldn’t make it go away but the tide had shifted and I controlled it more than it controlled me. But suddenly the bell rang and the older kids swarmed the playground. Without much warning, the biggest kid in school jumped on the opposite seat and my once firm grip on the ground suddenly carried the weight of a feather. I felt myself rocket into the air - MY legs now the ones dangling and realizing any “control” I once believed I gained had disappeared in an instant. Grief had, once again, taken the reigns.
So now here I sit - succumbed by the strength and weight of my grief. My feet are planted firm once again - just against their will and on the side I don't particularly care for. The sweetness of this day is overshadowed by the sorrow and so … the tug-of-war and back and forth battle ensues.
I look back at that “late-twenties, my baby just died and nothing else matters” version of myself and wish I could cradle her face in my hands. I want to look her straight in the eyes and give her a gentle, yet authoritative squeeze (It would be much nicer than the firm shake I would prefer at this moment). I want to open her eyes to something she took for granted and overlooked for so long. You see, she was SO focused on what she had lost that she completely overlooked what she still had - HER father.
After I shook some sense into her, I would pull her close and give her a big, motherly squeeze (we call them “Ten Second Hugs" in our family now). I would then wipe the tears from her cheeks and tell her that one day it wouldn’t hurt so bad. I would tell her I was proud of her and that she was doing a good job even though she felt as though she was drowning.
Because the truth is, she never should have had to watch her child get lowered into the ground. She never should have had to hear the noise of a truckload of dirt collapsing on his casket. So the truth is … navigating Father’s Day (even with her father alive) would sting regardless.
I then look back at the early-thirties version of myself. I want to run towards her with my arms waving back and forth in a desperate warning. You see, she’s looking the wrong way and has no idea what is about to collide with her. I want to yell for her to brace for impact - yet again. I want to warn her that she is about to be blindsided - right at the time when she finally felt as though she had figured out the tight-rope walk that is grief.
Soon she would find out her dad was dying and that foundation of confidence she built in believing she had ANY control over her grief would begin to shake and eventually crumble.
But right now, more than anything, I wish I could have a moment with the forty-year-old version of myself. I need her wisdom and direction. I need her to tell me this will all be ok. I need a Ten Second Hug. The problem is … I cannot gain her knowledge and insight and I cannot learn what she would know, without first walking the road between where I am and where she waits.
Normally about this time, I would be prepping my Dad’s favorite cake - all things chocolate and peanut butter of course. My hand would be cramping as I painfully minced chocolate chips to create the most perfectly textured topping, which would then become the base for a peanut butter drizzle. I had finally perfected it … although every year I would curse myself for not having invested in a food processor to make the process less time-intensive and painful.
But it was for my dad.
And nothing made that wonderful man happier than a slice (or bowl or cup or handful) of something sweet. Last year, I made his cake and wondered if it would be the last. Last year, I was tired, took a short-cut, and didn’t mince the chocolate chips. Right now, I hate myself for that because this year, on a snowy day in February, he died. This year, my hand isn’t cramping but my heart wishes so badly that it was.
I briefly thought of baking the cake anyways. Maybe someday I will get to a place where I will want to but today it feels like sacred ground. Today, if my dad can’t enjoy his cake - no one can. Today, I feel immensely protective of that cake. Grief certainly manifests in unpredictable ways …
I have a handful of friends I try my best to remember to text every year on Father’s Day; friends who knew the sting in a way I never understood. A father-less Father’s Day - it always weighed heavy on my heart. Today, I went to text these individuals and suddenly realized I was now a member of their group.
And now today, I got a couple of those text messages myself (to those who sent them … thank you. I didn’t realize how much I needed someone to remember). But I shouldn’t be getting text messages on Father’s Day. I am not a Father and I still truly believe mine is still here. It doesn’t feel right and yet - is entirely appropriate.
I had a body pillow made for my mom as a gift for today. It was covered in my Dad’s favorite shirts. One from his baptism … one with Logan’s footprint … a flannel I bought him at Christmas … his most comfy button-up … and last but not least - his “fancy” shirt (which was Hawaiian themed … that still makes me laugh by the way).
I can see him in that “fancy” polo as clear as day. He is wearing a baseball hat and has a camera slung over his shoulder and I just want to run to him and wrap my arms around his neck. But I can’t. Instead, my arms are desperately wrapped around this pillow and my face is practically smothered in its lackluster embrace. I’m doing my best to squeeze my eyes tight enough that I believe it could actually be him. But it’s so clearly not. It's pieces of him, but SO far - TOO FAR - from the real thing.
The fact that he is gone is still impossible to embrace but is slowly starting to sink in. My heart still fully refuses the notion that he is gone but I can tell my brain is starting to believe it to be true. I can feel the change because I have started to (almost) naturally refer to him past tense … someone who WAS and no longer is … and I hate it.
Today I see his boots still sitting in the living room. I still see his cowboy hat still hung on the door. His cookie tin still sits on top of the fridge. And yet … I don’t see him. He is not here and now I have no need for a peanut butter chocolate cake … and I hate it.
It has been 133 days since he left this world. 133 days since I got a real hug. 133 days since I’ve seen his crystal blue eyes and 133 days since I’ve run downstairs to kiss him goodnight. This number will only grow … and I hate it.
Those who know me well, know I struggle with anxiety - sometimes nearly crippling anxiety. It’s unfortunate collateral of a child gone too soon and a monster I now fear I will fight the rest of my life. Anxiety gives me this feeling in my stomach - a nauseating flutter that paralyzes and consumes me. If you don’t have anxiety there is no way to relate. But if you do? You know exactly what I am talking about.
When I think of not seeing my dad for months upon months, years upon years and eventually decades upon decades … I get that very same flutter. But this flutter is different. It’s bigger. It’s uglier. It paralyzes longer.
This flutter isn’t felt in my stomach - but instead - my HEART.
It makes my monster-sized, crippling anxiety feel like child’s play. It sends heat up my neck and stops my breath. In those moments I can’t move. I can’t breathe. My heart feels as though it could stall at any moment, but somehow always keeps beating.
Oh Dad, I see you everywhere …
I see you every time the evening light gives off that warm, crisp, and almost green undertone. The world looks so clear and still and I know you would want to grab your camera and run out the door searching for the perfect picture …
I see you when I walk past your bench at the lake. It’s where you and Mom would sit every evening and watch the setting sun. Mom refused to sit on it for quite a while but last week I found her there. I was proud of her but equally heartbroken. There are certain places where it’s just more obvious that you are gone …
I see you every time I open my medicine cabinet to floss my teeth. Yup Dad, that’s a weird one for sure. You see, I found these new flossers that work really well. They even fold in half to instantly transform into a toothpick. I had never known and probably never will know anyone who took their dental hygiene so seriously. You probably had the healthiest gums in the state and even after you died we would find the little blue pics you always used in such random places. Mom actually found one of them the other day. It made us laugh … then cry. As time goes on we will stop finding those unexpected pieces of evidence that you were here. And now EVERY SINGLE NIGHT when I open my cabinet and see those flossers, I wish I could run downstairs and show them to you.
We are approaching the 4th of July and the world feels so off. The night sky will be void of fireworks and mostly empty this year (long story there Dad). The last time this happened was the year Logan died. Strange that it has coincided with both my seasons of great sorrow. I’m ok with that for now and waiting for next year to REALLY face this holiday without you. I remember as a kid hiding in your shirt when the BIG fireworks went off. I remember being so afraid but feeling so safe in your embrace. The fireworks no longer scare me but continuing without you does.
So bring on the dark sky this year ...
Miss you beyond words Dad.
xo Jamie
