Fragments of My Father
It's that time of year again. The leaves are changing and my birthday draws near. I remember when October was my favorite month. In many ways it still is, but it's become difficult as well. Friday will mark two years since my dad unexpectedly left us all here to our own devices. I miss him everyday and will probably continue to do so until my own time is up here.
There have been many times where I've stopped myself from writing about that day. I tell myself that people won't want to read the details. And writing Dad's death still takes me back too close for comfort. I can only write down thoughts of that day in brief fragments. Rain. The last warmth of his hands. My brother absent from the hospital. His watch, that I now wear everyday, removed from his wrist and still ticking when his heart was not. The fake chaplain that tried to distract us from the malpractice happening with the inexperienced ER doctor who might have been an intern. My mother's cries. My numb pain of denial. Part of me is ashamed is write these thoughts in a public journal, but it brings a strange peace to another part of me. This peace says - yes this all happened. I lost my father two weeks before my 22nd birthday, and two years later I am okay.
The fact that I can write of these thoughts (even if not in complete sentences) is a matter of acceptance. Yes, that was a bleak day, but to be brutally honest it was the only bleak day I recall involving my dad. Every other day with Dad was (forgive me for sounding corny) absolute sunshine. The memories of every day spent with my father are precious. There are so many children who cannot say the same about their dads and I know I am very lucky to have had him for as long as I did. All of the music he shared with me. The gift of giggling over ridiculous puns and poems. Our rhyming wars. Work ethic. Respect and love. Self sacrifice. These thoughts also come in fragments, but for different reasons. There are simply too many good memories I have of Dad to even begin to include any of them in complete sentences here. I could write a book and still not have enough space to share the love and happiness he gave me.
This brings another exciting thought to me. Please don't take this the wrong way. I am in no way near ready to become a mother. We aren't even ready to become parents to a puppy yet, let alone a human child. Regardless, thinking of the joy my parents raised me in makes me very excited to become a parent someday. I want to carry on to another generation what my father gave to me. Though it saddens me greatly that my children will never know their grandpa, they will hopefully never feel like their grandpa is too far away.
I'm warning you, this is going to sound cliche. But many things become cliche because they are reflections of the truth. My father is alive as long as I am, because he lives on in me. Out of all the things I've had to learn to accept since Dad died, that has probably been the most difficult. Sometimes I miss him and the tears start to roll. I remind myself that everything he taught me is alive as long as I want it to be. I don't always feel better instantly, but it reminds me that I have something else to live for.
Perhaps you've lost somebody. Maybe you haven't. Maybe you are a family member come to read my journal and miss Karl Waldo too. If you've continued to read to this point - I thank you and hope my therapeutic writings have at least spurred some kind of thought or inspiration. They've certainly helped me.
There have been many times where I've stopped myself from writing about that day. I tell myself that people won't want to read the details. And writing Dad's death still takes me back too close for comfort. I can only write down thoughts of that day in brief fragments. Rain. The last warmth of his hands. My brother absent from the hospital. His watch, that I now wear everyday, removed from his wrist and still ticking when his heart was not. The fake chaplain that tried to distract us from the malpractice happening with the inexperienced ER doctor who might have been an intern. My mother's cries. My numb pain of denial. Part of me is ashamed is write these thoughts in a public journal, but it brings a strange peace to another part of me. This peace says - yes this all happened. I lost my father two weeks before my 22nd birthday, and two years later I am okay.
The fact that I can write of these thoughts (even if not in complete sentences) is a matter of acceptance. Yes, that was a bleak day, but to be brutally honest it was the only bleak day I recall involving my dad. Every other day with Dad was (forgive me for sounding corny) absolute sunshine. The memories of every day spent with my father are precious. There are so many children who cannot say the same about their dads and I know I am very lucky to have had him for as long as I did. All of the music he shared with me. The gift of giggling over ridiculous puns and poems. Our rhyming wars. Work ethic. Respect and love. Self sacrifice. These thoughts also come in fragments, but for different reasons. There are simply too many good memories I have of Dad to even begin to include any of them in complete sentences here. I could write a book and still not have enough space to share the love and happiness he gave me.
This brings another exciting thought to me. Please don't take this the wrong way. I am in no way near ready to become a mother. We aren't even ready to become parents to a puppy yet, let alone a human child. Regardless, thinking of the joy my parents raised me in makes me very excited to become a parent someday. I want to carry on to another generation what my father gave to me. Though it saddens me greatly that my children will never know their grandpa, they will hopefully never feel like their grandpa is too far away.
I'm warning you, this is going to sound cliche. But many things become cliche because they are reflections of the truth. My father is alive as long as I am, because he lives on in me. Out of all the things I've had to learn to accept since Dad died, that has probably been the most difficult. Sometimes I miss him and the tears start to roll. I remind myself that everything he taught me is alive as long as I want it to be. I don't always feel better instantly, but it reminds me that I have something else to live for.
Perhaps you've lost somebody. Maybe you haven't. Maybe you are a family member come to read my journal and miss Karl Waldo too. If you've continued to read to this point - I thank you and hope my therapeutic writings have at least spurred some kind of thought or inspiration. They've certainly helped me.