Am I better?

Am I a better person since my father died? I know I feel so much stronger and I feel older. I hope to say a bit wiser.

My father's death shook me. In fact, it still shakes me. I fear more and I hope I love more. I certainly have more patience with my mentally fragile mother. Before my dad's death I was angry. Angry at her irrationality and angry with her instability. She wasn't diagnosed with a mental illness until I was in my early 20's. Which means I spent a very good portion of my life feeling shaken by her, living my own private tornado with her.

Since my dad has passed, I have tried to become more patient. I invite her into our lives and this isn't something I did before. I encourage her to come and share and love us. I take pictures of her.

For many, many, years I wanted to erase her.

The gift of losing the one parent I didn't know but who felt wholly stable to me has been in walking closer to the storm. His death was the opportunity to really know that life isn't a guarantee. To experience loss and reach out for anything left tangible in the word of family. My mom is the only one and in an odd universe way, his leaving has brought us closer.

I only wish I could have been wiser and loved them both wholeheartedly. Loved them both without anger and resentment and distance.

Little House

One of my favorite shows growing up was Little House on the Prairie. I wanted to be Laura and live on a farm with horses and apple trees. Tonight, while perusing channels, I excitedly found old episodes--season 9, episode 1 to be exact.

I eagerly settled in to watch it and the episode opened with Pa selling the 'Little House' and moving to the city. Then Almanzo's brother, Roy, shows up with his daughter and we soon learn that he is dying. The tears began to flow and my stomach began to churn. I physically became sick to my stomach watching the episode enfold.

No one tells you this when you lose a loved one. No one tells you that your simplest/guilty pleasures can turn on a dime. That memories and life come crashing together in a horrible twist, stabbing you in the gut without warning.

I just miss my dad. I mourn for others who have felt this. I fear for my children someday feeling this pain.

4th of July

This morning, while making my bed, it dawned on me that it is a blessing that my dad passed on the fourth. A blessing because the day is forever marked with family and celebrations and festivity. I never have much time to curl up and cry and feel sorry for myself. On the fourth of July my family is always home, always surrounding me, and for that I am forever grateful.

I feel lucky.

I want to believe that this anniversary was a small gift from my dad, however true or not that thought is. It feels good to think of him giving me this.

Happy Fourth of July and may you, too, celebrate with loved ones on this day.

Disneyland

My dad was my Disneyland ticket. He took me when I was four years old and videotaped me running to the characters and hugging them. This was back in the days when a videocamera was the size of a small microwave and I appreciate that he loved me enough to tape me. I have since lost the tape but he showed it to me when I was a teenager and I remember the look of joy on my face as I ran, long unruly hair streaming behind me.

He took me to Disneyland as a preteen then again at the age of 22 with my own daughter, Katherine. Kate was four years old at the time and he always said that four year olds were the best to take to Disney. We had a great trip and all of us had hoped he would get to travel with my other kids to the "Happiest Place on Earth."

I have had his words about Disney in my head for years and intended to follow with this seemingly trivial piece of wisdom for my own family. Finances and moving and new babies put a crimp in our plans the past few years and our second oldest turned five last November. I felt that I had missed the four year old magic.

As life would have it, my stepfather unexpectedly paid to put up our family in a condo in Palm Springs for a week and I realized that Palm Springs isn't that far from Disney (2 hours drive). It almost felt meant to be, especially to travel so close to his death anniversary. So we scraped together a budget and a Disneyland plan and booked the trip. I felt like I was following my dad's life advice and wished he could have made the trip with us. I know he planned to take us again and this seemed a small consolation prize.

When I walked through the gates of Disneyland and looked at the plaque above my head that read, "Yesterday, today, and tomorrow" I welled with tears. I said some small words to my dad like, "miss you dad" and took a deep breath and put my sunglasses on. The knowledge of how he had once stood at that exact spot was powerful and overwhelming for me.

Within the park I insisted that we eat dessert at the Blue Bayou. A totally overpriced and underwhelming dining experience, but where he had taken me for my upcoming 23rd birthday on our last trip. I had hoped this meal would bring me closer to him but I felt no real connection. Actually it was more painful than anything and I felt foolish for having thought it would bring me peace.

Overall, Disneyland kept me busy and happy but I did find myself missing him at times. I gave in to a few tears here and there and smiled to myself when the kids rode Splash Mountain-twice-knowing that he would have enjoyed seeing their four and five year old bravery on display. I took some deep breaths on the Small World ride because that was one I remembered as a child and must have ridden it with him. I kept thinking to myself, "We rode this together. I am seeing what he saw. He was here!"

I miss him.

Three Years Ago

Three years ago Jon and I were sitting on the lawn of the Seattle zoo, listening to music from a concert, enjoying life and being out for an evening without the kids.

And then my cell phone rang.

My dad's wife told me that he hadn't spoken or eaten in five days and the hospice nurse didn't feel he had much time left.

Jon and I quickly made plans for me to drive down the next morning and I finished the concert with tears hidden behind my sunglasses.

This is always a bitter time of year for me. The fourth of July holiday is the annual reminder of my dads death and the days proceeding it. It brings back to mind my gut wrenching sobs on the drive to Oregon. My panic and disbelief and grief as I parked in the driveway and ran into the house looking for him in his hospital bed. I replay the movie in my head of all the sadness and watch the scenes unfold. And I cry. I still cry and it physically hurts.

I just wish he were here. I really, really, wish.

I miss him and his hugs and how much he would have enjoyed seeing me live my life.

I put on a happy face and never mention my grief. I choose to move forward and not display my pain in the hopes of encouraging the good in life to come. I don't know if this is right or healthy, but it is what I have done to deal with the pain. I know my dad would want me to smile and enjoy all life has to offer and celebrate the joys of the 4th of July with my family.

But, every year after dark on the 4th, I take a quiet tear filled walk by myself and talk to him amongst the stars, booms, and trees. I tell him how much I miss him and how I am hurting and usually I can't talk it hurts so badly but the walk brings me closure and a bit of comfort.

I just really wish he was here.