As my husband finished up his nightly ritual of watching TV in the living room, I crawled into bed and turned on my IPAD. I googled my dad's name to find alot of John D. Linville's. I added "obit" and found him.
It made me alternately happy and sad to see his obit. To see the proof of his life and my subsequent pain of his passing. To see his smiling obituary picture, the very one that I didn't chose. A picture that was taken at his work, from his ID badge. A picture and moment that I wasn't a part of. Somehow I feel jealous of that picture. It reminds me of all the moments I wasn't a part of his life. It drives home the point that I didn't really know him. I knew him as the dad I visited on vacations and a couple extra times a year. Since the age of two, I can honestly say that I probably never saw him more than six times in any given year.
What I did know was a man who had hundreds of people at his funeral. A man that those who worked with him, said made them laugh. A man who embraced me, my friends, my children, and my husband with love and encouragement. A man who loved animals and friends and quiet times spent reading.
I am left with googling his obituary to feel closer to him. It feels cheap and awkward, but in the end, I will take whatever I can get.
Monday, March 28, 2011
Sorrow
Sorrow just lingers. Or, my sorrow lingers. At times the pain is stomach churning. Triggered by commercials, TV shows, the changing of the seasons.
I want to run to my dad and put my arms around him. Curl my body next to his, and hold on tightly. Flashes of us in his living room, him in the hospital bed, fixate in my mind. I see his half smile contained within his chemo bloated face. I hear silence and my inability to tell him how sorry and scared I am. I see fear that I will be a blubbering mess and cause discomfort for anyone else around. I wanted minutes and hours with my dad. Alone. I was too uncomfortable to ask for this and now the moment has passed. I should have been braver and spoke out loud. I should have not cared how I would look or how awkward the intrusions of others may have been. I should have comforted him and comforted me. I should have done alot of moments differently.
What I remember most were his hands, fingers, feeling out for mine and his tight grip upon my hands. He didn't say it, but it was like he never wanted to let go.
If life were a do-over, I would have changed the months following his diagnosis. I would have gone to see him every other weekend. I would have insisted on more time. I would have been braver. I would have loved with out abandon. I would have memorized every detail. I would have been better.
I want to run to my dad and put my arms around him. Curl my body next to his, and hold on tightly. Flashes of us in his living room, him in the hospital bed, fixate in my mind. I see his half smile contained within his chemo bloated face. I hear silence and my inability to tell him how sorry and scared I am. I see fear that I will be a blubbering mess and cause discomfort for anyone else around. I wanted minutes and hours with my dad. Alone. I was too uncomfortable to ask for this and now the moment has passed. I should have been braver and spoke out loud. I should have not cared how I would look or how awkward the intrusions of others may have been. I should have comforted him and comforted me. I should have done alot of moments differently.
What I remember most were his hands, fingers, feeling out for mine and his tight grip upon my hands. He didn't say it, but it was like he never wanted to let go.
If life were a do-over, I would have changed the months following his diagnosis. I would have gone to see him every other weekend. I would have insisted on more time. I would have been braver. I would have loved with out abandon. I would have memorized every detail. I would have been better.
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