Dear Dad,
In November of 1998, your hands were frail, paper thin skin drawn tight over swollen knuckles. You had liver spots, although you were only sixty-eight, not old by today’s standards. Old is eighty-something. Old is for other people.
That day, you struggled to breathe and disdained the oxygen the doc wanted you to use full time, but smoking a pack a day for forty years had finally caught up to you. You thought because you’d quit the year before, it couldn’t hurt you anymore, but past mistakes never lose their power to injure. Echoes roll forward through the years.
You were glad we came, but you were so tired. I saw it in the hollows of your eyes. Even though you never yielded in your heart and mind, never doubted the doctors would find a way to save you, your body was giving up for you.
I knew you were gravely ill, but I didn’t want to deal with it. That’s how I function, push it back until I don’t have a choice anymore. On December 24, 1998, that flashpoint occurred. You collapsed while everyone was trying to celebrate the holiday around you, pretending you weren’t dying. Pretending we were full of good cheer and this was a holiday like any other.
But it wasn’t. And holidays would never be the same again. You stayed in the hospital on life support until January 2. I held your hand while you died.
In September of 1999, I bore a son and I named him after you. He was conceived the night we put you in the ground. You never saw him or held him, but he is your namesake.
Ten years later, it is your birthday. Remember how I always bought you a box of peanut brittle and two copies of the same book? Generally a spy novel. You liked Ian Fleming and John le Carre. I bought our books from a bargain table because I was a poor student back then. We would read the novel at the same time, and then discuss it. That gave us some common ground, something to talk about, because we didn’t have much in common otherwise. We were the only two people in the family who liked to read. Now I’m the only one.
I miss you. Ten years gone and I miss the way you fussed over whether I had jumper cables, if I had an emergency kit in the car and a pair of comfortable shoes. When I graduated college, you said you were proud of me. I’ve made so many mistakes over the years; I hope you still are.
Happy Birthday, Dad. I wish you a good book and peanut brittle, wherever you are.
Love,
Ann
Ann- What a gorgeous and moving post. I’m so sorry for your loss. Some hurts never go away, do they?
{{hugs}}
by MK/Kati November 17th, 2008 at 11:56 am(((((Ann))))) Sorry. BTDT with my parents and I’m not sure if that’s why your note is hard but lovely to read.
by kate r November 17th, 2008 at 12:06 pm(hugs you)
by Lauren November 17th, 2008 at 12:37 pmMay your loss diminish with time and happy thoughts grow.
Happy Birthday to your Dad.
by Mariana November 17th, 2008 at 2:13 pmReading about parents and offspring always gets me misty-eyed; it’s one of my triggers.
Thanks for sharing your father–and yourself–with us.
by Joe Iriarte November 17th, 2008 at 2:33 pm(((hugs)))
by Hilcia November 17th, 2008 at 4:18 pm((HUGS))
by katiebabs November 17th, 2008 at 4:45 pmYou are a good person, a good mother, a talented writer, a loving wife, a great and generous friend.
Your father will always be proud of you, no matter what, but *if* reasons were needed, you have given him plenty every day of your life.
(((Ann)))
by azteclady November 17th, 2008 at 4:59 pmHey Ann,
This really touched me. This October it has been 11 years since I lost my dad. We never saw eye to eye on things but a love of reading. I got married the year after he died and cried that he wasn’t there to give me away. Since then I have had two children and it hits me at the weirdest moments that he will never get to see them. Thank you for writing this. Thank you.
by Leslee November 17th, 2008 at 6:18 pmThanks for all the hugs. And thank you very much for the support. It’s a tough day, but my family has been great. I’ve done a number of self-indulgent things today, and I’m feeling a bit better.
I hope y’all are too.
{{{HUGS}}}
My Dad was 59 when he died of lung cancer in 1986. I was 2-1/2 to 3 months pregnant with my oldest two kids. He knew I was pregnant but we didn’t know it was twins yet. What’s eerie is that HIS father died when my Mom was 2-1/2 to 3 months pregnant with ME.
Oh, and my Christmas gift to my Dad always included pistachios.
by BevQB November 17th, 2008 at 9:13 pm(((Ann))) What a tough day. I think that your post is very beautiful and touching…it sounds like you had a wonderful father!
Thinking of you today.
by Lori T November 17th, 2008 at 11:16 pm*hugs*
I hope today is a better day.
by Katie November 18th, 2008 at 8:01 amMy dad passed away suddenly when I was 11. I wish we had such a beautiful habit as reading books simultaneously.
by Maya M. November 18th, 2008 at 1:10 pmSuch a beautiful letter to your dad. May you be comforted by happy memories of him and the times you had together.
Hugs from me to you…
by Christine November 18th, 2008 at 11:21 pmThis was really beautiful.
by RachaelfromNJ November 22nd, 2008 at 1:55 am