Dear Dad (5 Years)

Dear Dad,

Five years is both an eternity and a blink of an eye. I learned so much going through your death that I thought it would prepare me for others. I learned that proactivity is important. I’ve now realized it may not mean much in the long run. As it turns out you were the dress rehearsal, but mom is the performance. 

We always said you had 9 lives, and we thought you were dying for years with your litany of serious medical conditions. And then when you were actually dying from a hospital bed first and rehab center next, we had 3 months to sit by your bedside and get used to it. 

Being with you during that time, I realized that people don’t always die fast, like in the movies.  

From November 2018 until February 2019, you clearly weren’t getting better in our estimations, but what did we know? The “experts” at the rehab center kept saying they were going to get you up and walking again and release you home. We never told you that mom, Janice and I were freaking the F out about that prospect. How in the world would 75-pound mom be able to take care of 200-pound you in a 600 square-foot two-story house not built for walkers and handicaps? 

Mentally, you didn’t want to die. You kept holding on. I think you were anxious about mom living on her own. Then, one day in February, you said to someone (not us) that you were ready to die. So you officially went on hospice, and they turned off your pacemaker. It still took longer than we all expected, but we all felt relieved when you passed on 2/24/19. You were finally in a far better place. 

Now that I have several friends who have lost parents, I realize there are no winners in the dead parents club, whether it was a slow death in a hospital bed or a sudden trauma in which they are ripped from your life. But I thought your death was slow. However, it turns out mom’s end of life is upstaging yours. Mom—as well as Janice and I—wonder if you can you put a word in with the Big Guy to move along mom’s spot in the line?  

My clutches of grief for you have become lazy, though the hole in my heart from your absence is still there. As Katie Couric said, grief is like walking around with a rock in your pocket. At first, you feel it in your pocket. But over time, it just becomes part of you. It doesn’t go away. I have voicemails saved for the purpose when I really miss you and want to be reminded of your voice. I also have your electric razor for the purpose of your scent (though that is sadly fading almost completely). I see old pictures and smile. Years creep on and my connection to you blurs a little. As I am cleaning out the house you and mom lived in for nearly 50 years bit by bit, I am still finding so much evidence of you and it is heartwarming. 

Anyway, all this to say, I miss you and am eternally grateful for all the lessons you taught me. 

Love, Pay