Colonoscopy

I am having a colonoscopy tomorrow and am knee deep in the prep. The fact that I am having my third colonoscopy by age 36 unsettles me. It makes me feel my mortality, or at least reflect upon it. Losing my dad has made me feel, at times, unreasonable pangs of loneliness and desperation. I fear not for my life, but the lives of my young children and so I worry.

I am trying to take charge of my health and keeping myself as healthy as possible, as long as possible. This is why I scheduled a full skin cancer screening this spring as well as my overdue colonoscopy.

It surprises me that my dad's death knocks me at unexpected times. Of course I feel his loss at holidays, celebrations, milestones...but I never expected to mourn the loss of him at my medical procedures. No one speaks of that. No one warns you that the unexpected moments can knock you to the grown and remind you, like a huge gushing wave, that you are forever altered.

Missing

As I put the horses away tonight I felt the bitter twinge of loneliness. I paused and wanted to wrap my arms around myself, just to feel a sense of a hug from my dad. I so wish he could have seen our home, met our son, been longer in my life. I miss him.

I looked to the summer night sky, listened to the birds chirping, and longed for some sign. Just one sign. Any sign. I wish I could have experiences where I knew he was here. I need him and miss him and just want a bit of reassurance from my father. Life feels so lonely without him. Lonely and desperate.

I can't imagine living another forty to fifty years without him. I hope to, but it feels bleak and I am jealous of families who have time.

Obituary

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.

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.

It was Awful

I sit here, alone, watching TV. I am rarely alone and the memories come flooding back. It was awful. Like watching someone else from afar; the phone call and me saying, "okay" over and over while silent tears coursed down my face. Jon and Kate wondering what was wrong with my dad, and me writing "brain tumors" on a scrap piece of paper.

Fast forwarding to his last day of life. His wife planning a 4th of July party while he lay dieing in the living room. His breath shuddering in and out and me running to him saying, "It's okay Daddy. I am here. I will be okay." Following up in front of a stranger in their kitchen, "It is time to go."

Going to bed that night I knew he wouldn't live through the night. I woke to hear his breathing stopped and Karen calling hospice and the funeral home. I stayed with him, shivering in the cold house and texting my husband and daughter that he was gone. The words of my then 15 year old daughter saying, "I am so sorry Mom" come back to me over and over.

I just miss him and wish life wasn't so unfair. I miss his hugs, his laughter, his spirit, his steadiness. I miss claiming him as my dad. I miss him. Life hurts.

Guilt

The last few weeks I have been feeling guilty. Guilty for not visiting my dad more, guilty for not asking him if he was afraid or what I could do for him. Most of all, I feel guilty for avoiding the subject of his impending death. I was too afraid and uncomfortable to talk with him, leaving him alone in this process. I am guilty of this and it brings me grief. If I had a do-over, then I would be brave and face death as a part of life, and I would be there for him.

I miss him and lament the life he has already missed~the birth of Augustus, his granddaughter driving, and us moving into our farm house. The very move that he said would happen.

Snow

I don't write much, it is just too painful. My dad is never far from my thoughts and I think of him daily....but writing about it, putting words to my pain, is just too raw for me.

Today it snowed. Our first snowfall in our new home. I remember being despondent to my dad, saying how I felt like we would never sell our small Seattle home and move to the country. My dad said, "It will happen." I didn't believe him, but of course he was right.

This snowfall is so meaningful because it is the first in our new home. It is also the first of the season and we are all very excited. My dad loved the snow and the sun. In fact, he appreciated all of the seasons. He was an adventurer at heart who often bundled me up to ski resorts when I visited. He would have enjoyed this snow. He would have been one of the first to put his warm clothes on and go pack the first snowball. He was game for anything and I am saddened beyond comprehension that someone with his zest could be robbed so early. He had so much more life to experience and would have loved playing with the kids.

So, today, our 2 inch snowfall (so far) brings me joy and saddness. I keen for him to be here, hear his voice on the phone with excitement, but it is not to be. Instead I am left with imagining how he would act and what he might say.

I hear, "Az, want to take a walk in the snow with me?" Of course I say yes.