Even with all the joy and anticipation of a new little life… my heart still aches from missing my dad, especially today. He loved his granddaughters (and sons) so much. And along with the rest of us, I know that he would be getting pretty excited about the birth of his great grandchild.
I have a very difficult time believing that he died 4 years ago. I feel like he is still such a huge part of our lives and our families. I know that is the tricks of the mind, because the day he died is so clearly painted into the memory of my consciousness that I can never escape it completely.
June 16, 2007
It was the Saturday performance of recital weekend. And it started early as they always have with lots to do. Prepping, gathering, planning, and anticipating the thrill of the day. Dad had stopped taking my calls out of exhaustion… he was sleeping more and more, so I knew that he was being challenged by this disease, I just didn’t realize the extent… I know now that my intellect was in denial about the serious reality of his health condition. He had been diagnosed with colon cancer, 45 days before. And I always knew that he would get better… I was with him when the doctor gave him the diagnosis, I was with him as we left the hospital, and he clearly told me that he was not going to die. I believed him… because I couldn’t imagine my life without him. And he was my dad. And dads are strong. Fighters. Warriors. Heroes. So when my brother, David, called the morning of June 16th and said that Dad was struggling, I knew we needed to go. All of us. Because it was time. And then life became blurred as the 5 of us got ready for the drive to Columbus in 2 separate cars. And I remember calling people and I remember Jenny helping and I remember thinking that I had to get there fast. Really fast. That I had to see him. That I had to be there. That there would be something that we could do. That this wasn’t real.
And at 11:44, we pulled up. To the house that I had lived in with my mother and father and sister and brother. And we got out. And I remember feeling so surprised because everything looked the same, and there was this beautiful sunshine and delicate breeze. A perfect day. A day for gardening. Or gathering.
Today it was for gathering. I remember hugging my mom as we came inside. Holding her tight. I remember being unafraid as I climbed the stairs to my parent’s bedroom. And walking in. And my dad was awake and I felt relief. And he said “Hey, babes”… like he always did… And then he said, “You got here fast…” And I reminded him that I learned to drive from him. And then he told me that he and David had been playing cards, and he secretly showed me the 8 of spades that he had stashed under his pillow, to ensure his own victory… and I remember trying to be so brave. For him.
The lightly perfumed breeze was lifting the curtain in the room filling it with an angelic sweetness and he told us he could see strawberry fields. And people playing bocce ball.
He knew it was time too. And he had waited for us. To say good-bye without saying the words. He laid back down. And closed his eyes. We got close to him, holding him, supporting him, while the tears streamed down our faces, and Terry prayed for mercy and for thankfulness… that we would all be together again some day. And then dad’s breathing slowed, and at 1:15, it stopped, as we held him. Loving him. Missing him already. Still missing him.
Even in the sadness of his death, I can find the joy from his life. In the songs that he would make up, that my girls still sing… or the dances he would do, that would make us laugh… or the phrases that he would speak (that shouldn’t even be repeated), but that are still remembered (and repeated). I keep this photo on my desk, of Dad with the girls being silly together… because it always makes me smile.
It made me smile today.
Live well.
Lisa
Loves Doves 