Today marks the day my Dad died, 9 years ago. I was always ‘Daddy’s Little Girl’. He wasn’t perfect (because who is?!), but he was my hero, and I admired, respected, and loved him immeasurably. Since a child, I fretted and cried thinking about the day he would die and if I would be able to handle it. I began praying when I was a child that God would help and comfort me when the dreaded day should come. I didn’t know he would only be 55, and I would only be 31.
It was God’s grace that my heart could be full (one last time) as I spoke with him the morning of the last day that his heart would beat. I called him on the phone since we live many provinces away. I remember we spoke about my brother who was having a rough time in life and had currently been undergoing a strained relationship with him, and my Dad’s expressed love for his son, and his unshakeable confidence that he would return to the Lord. He teased me about being like one of the women he casually and lovingly adopted as his own daughter who lived nearby. I told him about my ultrasound that week and the suspect that I may be carrying twins. We laughed (because you just didn’t talk to Dad without also having a few laughs, even if, no especially if, there were also tears), and we chatted. As always, bringing our conversation to a close and saying goodbye was hard. We always said, “I love you.” Always.
When I was a young child, probably 7 years of age or so, I was staying with my favourite great Aunt for a sleepover. My Dad dropped by after work on his bike, before heading home, to say a quick hello. I was too busy playing to stop and say goodbye to my Dad as he left, and he began to ride away down the busy city street. Urgency rose in my heart and I yelled from the veranda for him to stop at the 4 way street lights ahead. My Aunt hoisted me over the safety gate and I ran down the sidewalk to say goodbye, hug him, and tell him that I loved him. My Aunt spoke with me on that occasion about the importance of never missing an opportunity to tell those we care about how we feel. That was a marker moment for me in time, and I have always, always been very open and vocal about my feelings for those I care about.
The call came late at night while my family and I were all snuggled securely and soundly into bed. Finding out my Dad had had a massive heart attack stopped my world on it’s axis. The fragility of life met me smack in the face. I called my siblings and my aunt to regurgitate the news that I was having trouble swallowing. We grieved deeply together in disbelief.
The following days are a blur for me. I have snippets of memories. I remember calling my best friend in Ottawa and how sad she was with me. I remember calling my cousin and how sad she was with me. I remember calling my girlfriend here and how she declared immediately she was coming over. When she came, she hugged me, did my dishes, and handed me an envelope with $800 because the Lord told her to give her best gift to us, and she obeyed (even though it cost her everything she had). It helped pay for our plane tickets to go to the funeral. I remember sifting through photographs in a panic coming to grips with the fact that memories and photos were now all I had left, and distinctly not being able to come to terms with the fact that there weren’t enough of either.
I don’t remember who took our children, but probably the same friend that always took the opportunity to help us out. I remember driving to the airport with caring and well-meaning friends who were dropping us off, and them talking about life, and me feeling like I wanted to scream at them to just stop talking because my life had just been so drastically altered I just needed to be still and quiet. I remember writing a message to share at my Dad’s funeral on the plane and how it all felt so surreal. I remember staying at my Dad’s pastor’s home and how calm, quiet, and peaceful it was to be there. I remember how my husband held me all through the night as I slept in starts and fits, crying as I slept and crying as I woke, with no seeming reprieve from the pain of loss except to call on Jesus and be held. I remember not being able to, at first, walk toward the open casket and how I was gripping my husbands arm so tightly telling him I didn’t think I could do this, my knees weak with fear to face the inevitable. I remember one of my Dad’s brothers and his wife flying out to be with us- one out of his eight siblings because no one could afford to travel. I remember being horrified at being able to see the stitches where they clearly must have cut my dad’s head open for the autopsy and how that sent chills of horror down my body. I remember one of my step-sister’s collapsing as she approached Dad’s lifeless body. I remember my brother in shock talking to Dad as though he were alive, wanting with everything within him to shake his hand one more time, to laugh one more time, to hug him one more time, to talk to him one more time. I remember my sister and brother and I saying our last goodbye, all together, tears and snot and unabashed grief pouring itself out. I remember the awful, terrible, un-matched sound of grieving wails that are guttural and primal coming from mine and my loved ones very widely torn open souls.
I remember courage imparted to me from on High to speak Truth and Gospel about my Dad and about the hope of the resurrection we have in Jesus. I remember kind words and kind gestures from strangers who knew my Dad. I remember sitting in a restaurant with family and feeling empty and exhausted. I remember wanting something of my Dad’s to take back home with me desperately; to search through his things, but wanting to be respectful of his wife who was not ready for that step. Instead, I just took a shirt of his that I had bought for him years earlier that he wore proudly and remembered to wear (as a beautiful gesture) the day before my wedding. I remember laughter, a kind of out of control, goose-pimply, comic relief in the midst of tragedy as my sister and I picked out my Dad’s urn. I remember us laughing ridiculously and shamelessly about not wanting to drop my Dad, or put him in the trunk, as I carried his ashes from the funeral parlour, and remarking about what things he would be saying to us right at those moments in humour. I remember the ugly cries as my brother, my sister and I all took pictures together at the airport, after the worst reunion, and the last time we have all been together since. I remember soberly carrying what was left of Dad through airport security.
And then we were home. And there were children and a home to tend to. There was life to return to after meeting with death. It was a jolt of reality that I didn’t know how to embrace. My unpredictable outbursts of grief scared my children, which halted my comfort and ability to grieve openly. So, on the first year of the anniversary of my Dad’s death, and every year since, I have requested my husband take the day off and he has lovingly agreed. He stays with the kids and does most of the care and I quietly try to take the freedom to be by myself and grieve however I need to. I look at as many photos as I can. I record and reread all of my memories with my Dad. I look for, and watch, that one video I have of him talking and laughing and telling me he loves me. I give myself permission to cry. I allow myself to feel all of the feelings deeply. Today, I blog. It’s my way to grieve, and not forget.
I miss my Dad so much. For the longest time, it was strange. Because we lived so far away from one another, I had to remind myself often that he wasn’t just ‘ far away’, but actually dead and gone. I couldn’t call him to tell him something funny, or ask his advice, or vent, or chat, or check the facts about something I vaguely remember. I couldn’t dream or beg for another visit sometime in the future. He is with Jesus, and Jesus is in me, but we are not together. And my heart aches because time passes slowly for the grieving heart.
In 2002, my Dad gave me a book with an inscription in it. It’s only the second thing that I have with his writing on it. He didn’t like to write often since he struggled to reach grade 8 and his penmanship, grammar and spelling were embarrassing for him. I treasure his hen scratches and the love that is behind each difficult letter for him to have scribed. Ironically, the book is entitled, “Hugs from Heaven”.
