Tag Archives: death

13 Down and Across

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One of the strongest memories I have of my dad is opening up a fresh “Games Magazine” and doing the word puzzles with him. In the car, at a diner, in the park, by the pool … Games Magazine was a staple of our relationship. When he died, I had the remainder of his subscription mailed to my house. A few months ago, when it expired – I renewed it in my name.

I haven’t touched them. They just pile up on my bedside table, waiting. Waiting for what, I’m not sure. Part of me feels like it’s wrong to do it without him, and part of me knows he’d be horrified that I have all of those great puzzles there and I haven’t touched any of them.

It also occurs to me that I hadn’t done any kind of crossword in about a year. I miss them. So today at lunch, I picked up the newspaper and sat down to a puzzle.

Didn’t go great – but I’ll get in the swing of it again. I’d do better if I had Dad for a consult. Happy Birthday, Dad.

Not a day goes by …

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I know, it’s Mother’s Day – but this one is a little rough for me, so please bear with some rambling. It’s the one year anniversary of my father’s death. And I still can’t believe that it’s true.

Literally, not a day goes by where I don’t absentmindedly think to pick up the phone and call him. Sometimes just to tell him something, and sometimes just because I’m bored and I miss him.

It’s been a really rough year. Anything associated with my dad seemed to come tinged with drama, and this has not been an exception. My relationships with his family, instead of growing stronger, seem to have become even unhinged, as I try to work through my own grief and somehow still end up as the center of support for everyone else. I’m consciously trying to take a step back from that role, and … it isn’t always pretty.

Mourning him is so difficult. My dad was such a polarizing figure, and people have strong emotions about him. And very often, I feel like I’m the only one who bears that burden. I know that’s not entirely true, but on some level – it is. We had a very complicated and unique relationship. He was more my friend than a dad in a lot of ways (although I’m realizing, now that he is gone, how much I really did learn from him – it’s so hard to accept that I can’t tell him that …) and in a lot of ways, I really was my dad’s best friend. It’s a heavy mantle.

I keep thinking about how much he’s missing. And whenever I do or experience something fun, I think about how much he’d love to hear about it, or what he would say. And I think that’s where I get tripped up. Because as my sister has pointed out – he’s not missing it. He’s dead. He doesn’t know he isn’t here. It’s really more about me, wishing he was here to share it. It’s a fine distinction, and I think it helps. When I think about it from what I would consider “his” perspective, I feel sad for him, and almost guilty that life goes on. When I think about how I feel about it — well, I mean – that’s just healthier. It also helps, because my dad was many things, but unpredictable wasn’t one of them. I can almost hear and predict, word-for-word what he would have said in almost any situation, and sometimes — that helps.

So, life goes on. And I’ll continue to try and untangle some of the messes he left, try to find ways to honor him as life goes on, and keep his voice in my head. But today, one year later? I’m just sad.

Really? That’s what you thought was appropriate?

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It never ceases to amaze me what comes out of people’s mouths. And luckily, I have a blog to share all the “Did they REALLY just say that?” horror.

I was at a gathering of strangers with a common goal this weekend (okay, it was a WeightWatchers meeting) and the Leader was asking people how they did over the week, was their eating under control, etc. Normal stuff. And this  one weird, fidgety guy next to me raises his hand and says that he ate and drank a lot this weekend. More than normal. “Why?” He goes on to explain that his friend died. One of two people that died as a result of Hurricane Irene. He was rafting. And he was very upset. His daughter (wife?) pipes up that he never drinks.

So, that was awkward. We are strangers. He’s obviously in need of comfort, but I don’t know him from a hole in the wall. I  make a murmuring “so sorry.” And then some guy in the front row (whose wife earlier grilled someone about what she was doing in a McDonald’s) asks what the dead guy’s name was.What? Why?

The guy responds with his name.

Then Mr. Sensitive in the front row responds “Oh! Yeah. They found his body this morning.”

Well, gee sir. Thanks for proving how up on local news you are. Congrats.

Douchebag. Like, on what planet is that something you think a guy’s friend would want to hear on a Sunday morning at his weight loss support group?

I’ve had my own share of “wtf?” moments lately. I know that when you decide to get married and have a wedding, everyone has an opinion or  a piece of advice to offer. I was prepared for that. What I wasn’t prepared for was for a large majority of people, immediately upon hearing I am getting married, ask me (verbatim) “Well, now that your dad is dead, who is walking you down the aisle?”

It’s like a knife in the heart, every time. Now first off – I never intended to have my dad walk me down the aisle. I always saw this as a solo trip. But I am very, very keenly aware that my dad isn’t here to share this day with me. And that I’ll never get to have the option to offer him that honor. Or have a dad-daughter dance. Or any of those things. And the fact that people bring it up as soon as I share my happy news? Kills me.

 

An Atheist in Mourning

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Today is kinda eh. It’s not only the two-month anniversary of my dad’s death, it would have been his 55th birthday. I’m meeting my mom, sister, his girlfriend and one of his old friend’s for dinner to celebrate his life, share stories, etc. But today just sucks.

Sometimes it feels like he’s been gone for so long, and sometimes it hits me how new this all feels, and it hurts all over again. I’m used to missing my dad – he moved to Florida when I was about 12, and there was a long stretch of time a few years ago when I was denied regular access to him. So, missing him hurts – but I can deal. It’s the sudden, gut-punch of realization that the missing is never going to end that really gets me. I am not saving these stories up for later, or to write down for him. He’s just … never coming back.

And that’s what I think the hardest part is about being an atheist. My dad just isn’t there anymore. He isn’t in Florida, he isn’t on vacation, he just no longer exists. People will try to comfort you with things like “He’ll always be with you” or “He’s watching over you” or “You’ll meet him again.” And that’s just … not true. Sure, he’ll always be in my heart and memory and all he taught me and all that jazz. But he’s just not here anymore. He’s nowhere.

And I get it the whole comforting aspect of religion. I totally do. It would be so nice to believe that this isn’t the end, and that he’s out there, somewhere, just not accessible to me. But I don’t and never will. But sometimes I really, really want to.

Remembering Grandpa

I’ve written this post a thousand times in my head. On the plane, in the airport, at the funeral and on the subway. And even still, I’m writing it now and I don’t know what I’m going to say. I can make it funny and tell you about the comedy of errors that befell me and my family in the hours after finding out my grandfather passed away this past Friday. Or I could tell you some heartbreakingly beautiful stories about the lessons I’ve learned from my grandparent’s 55 years of marriage.

I could probably write whole posts about how weird it felt to be sitting with my long-estranged parents in the same room together, playing Scrabble with all three of my little sisters. Or how gut-wrenching it was to hold my grandmother up while she yelled at a coffin, begging her dead husband to take care of their daughter, who we placed in the grave next to his, six years earlier. I could tell you what it’s like to look out at a group of senior citizens, open your mouth to deliver a eulogy and instead cry and snort into a microphone, causing your sister to dissolve into a fit of giggles. Except I would probably leave that out and just tell you how I proud I was of my 11 year-old sister’s much more dignified speech.

I want to tell you stories about my grandfather, and how he lived to be 90 and never lost his sense of wonder. How he always had a really bad pun and refused to say a bad word about anyone. Even when I wished he would. I want to tell you about the stories my grandmother told us about how she chased my grandfather for two years before he would settle down. And I want to burst with pride when I explain that my grandfather was a model of what it means to be a partner in marriage. I want to marvel at the beauty that my 90 year old Grandpa was an honest, hardworking man, free from the bigotry that plagued so many people of his generation.

I will do all these things. But for now, I’ll just remember my Grandpa. He was a gutteh neshumah – a good soul. I’ll miss him.

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