Today I forgot my father was dead.
For one glorious second, standing in my bathroom, digging through a cosmetics bag while ruminating about something ridiculous the kids had just done, I thought, “Wow, I can’t wait to tell Dad. Wonder what he’ll say about that?”
For one glorious second, standing in my bathroom, digging through a cosmetics bag while ruminating about something ridiculous the kids had just done, I thought, “Wow, I can’t wait to tell Dad. Wonder what he’ll say about that?”
And then memory hit with a physical pain, and I stared into the mirror and saw a figure clutching her abdomen with one hand and the counter with another. The abrupt pain of it was such a shock that I actually gasped.
After a minute or so, the adrenaline drained out of me, along with all my energy, and I felt the familiar, heavy pressure of grief in my belly. The eyes in the mirror looked old and tired.
This is not this first time this has happened. Several times I’ve had the phone in my hand, ready to dial, before I’ve remembered. I catch myself referring to my father in the present tense or talking about “my parents” instead of simply saying, “my mother.” Usually in the morning I wake up with the sense that something’s not quite right, but unless I’ve had a nightmare specifically about Dad, it can take me a few minutes to remember why my sheets are tangled from a night of running through buildings trying to find something that isn’t there.
My father was a sentimental man, though he wasn’t raised to talk about his feelings, preferring instead to stick with small talk about his oral surgery practice, his golf game, or any number of topics that fascinated him throughout his life. He held his fears close as well, a habit which infuriated me. I wanted to talk about his cancer. I wanted him to talk about his cancer. Because when I’m afraid, that’s what I do: talk. God made my brain so that it best handles fear by imagining and then speaking about the worst possible scenario, so I can prepare for it.
My father was wired differently. He handled fear best through denial. I wish I’d come to understand this before he died. Ironically enough, I’ve come to understand the beauty of denial now, as I grieve, experiencing it in those beautiful stolen moments, those unexpected split seconds where my synapses forget to fire and I remember my father as whole, and healthy, and where for just a moment, I can hear him laugh.
But for me, I’m not sure this denial is worth it. When the realization hits, it’s like the pause before a baby’s scream, that horrible moment when you know what’s coming, you can hear and see the great intake of breath, yet you can do nothing to stop the onslaught of sound and fury. That moment finds you cringing, flinching away from an inevitable blow. Sometimes the anticipation, the pause, is worse than the scream itself.
In 2000, three years into his cancer battle, I was searching desperately for a present for my father. Perhaps it was his birthday, or maybe Father’s Day. I don’t remember. The usual gifts of cologne, books, magazines, or DVDs didn’t seem appropriate. I wanted him to have something to hold close, a source of comfort in the dark moments he surely had, even if he didn’t share them. In short, I wanted him to have the peace of God.
But how do you put God in a box?
You can wrap up a Bible, which I did, years later, after he saw me with mine and asked for one. But without a spiritual Sherpa to guide you over the steep hills and around the treacherous ravines within, the Bible can become an object of frustration rather than comfort. When I first tried to plow through my beautiful, leather-bound King James version, I started with the first chapter of Genesis and didn’t even make it to Exodus.
After much thought and research, I bought a silver pendant of Saint Peregrine, the patron saint of cancer. I made sure it was on a long chain so Dad could wear it under his clothes without it showing, and so it would hang close to his heart.
Never in my wildest dreams did I think he would wear it.
But he seemed touched by the gift and put the necklace on that day. He didn’t take it off again (except for MRIs) until the chain broke. My mother either had it fixed or got a replacement, I’m not sure which. It remains the only gift I ever gave him that I’m sure he loved, that he didn’t want to be without. Perhaps the idea of an intercessor was a comfort, or maybe it was the idea that Peregrine had suffered as he had, and had, through a miracle of Christ, been healed. I don’t know, because though he wore it constantly, Dad never did talk about it.
In the emergency room, the doctors and nurses removed his necklace as they worked feverishly over him. Someone handed it to me in an orange-topped plastic container, and that’s when I started to cry.
Later, after Dad was stabilized, he asked for his glasses, and to my surprise, his necklace. The doctors agreed that it was ok for him to wear it, so we fastened it around his neck, and it stayed there for the rest of his life.
It was there the night we stayed up together watching television and found out that neither of us were smarter than a 5th grader. It was there when my husband drove to the hospital so he could say goodbye. It was there, visible on his chest, when his breathing turned agonal, and I can still see it on his pale, waxy skin, heaving up and down with each breath as he fought against leaving.
After he died, Mom gave me the necklace. I wore it to his funeral and for several weeks thereafter. Then it became too painful to wear all the time. I didn’t need a reminder that he was gone. Every heartbeat pounded it out. There was no escaping it.
Recently I’ve started to wear the necklace again, hoping that the slight weight of it resting above my heart will be a comfort to me as it was to him, a reminder to pray, a reminder to hope. But I also wear it to help me remember that he’s gone; to protect me from the pause before screaming that follows those exquisitely beautiful moments of forgetting.
I love you, Angie.
Big hugs, Angie. You are amazing.
really beautiful, Angie. wow
Lots of love.
I am still not able to wear the beautiful cross he gave me that I wore constantly when he was in the hospital and months before his collapse. Every time I leaned over him, he reached for it, held it, rubbing it each and every time. One day I hope I will be able to wear it again and remember him as he was before the cancer took him away…..and the pain and ache will fade.
you are a beautiful writer and you're making me cry in a coffee shop. and i never cry.
“But for me, I’m not sure this denial is worth it. When the realization hits, it’s like the pause before a baby’s scream”
“But how do you put God in a box?”
now that's how a writer is supposed to write.
and you've renewed a sense of faith in me. that's hard to say. but i thank you.
Wow. Your writing is giving me goosebumps. Thanks so much for your honesty and for sharing your story with us. He is with you always–in the moments when you forget he has passed and when you celebrate the good times you had. He would be so proud of you
Just found my way over here via the Red Dress Club. This was a very touching and honest post. Those moments you describe, when for a second you forget about your loss, is I'm sure something many people can relate to.
@Ericka, I cannot believe I made you cry in public. So sorry!
I also can't tell you how much your words mean. And seriously, if I've renewed a sense of faith in you or in anybody else, this blog has accomplished something I can really be proud of. Even if it does mean that I end some sentences in prepositions.
@Charlotte, again, thank you so much. Sorry about the goosebumps, but I'm thrilled you felt it.
@Lindsay, ditto on the thanks. I'm so thrilled about the Red Dress Club. Can't wait to read your stuff, too!
Simply beautiful. Very heart felt and full of emotion. This rings very close to home for me at the moment. It was a struggle to get through it but I'm glad I did. Great writing.
Stopping by from the red dress club. This is amazing writing. More than that though, it is so open and honest. Reading this, I felt at least a little of what you must feel. Making someone feel with your words is a powerful thing to be able to do. Thank you so much for sharing this.
Stopping by from The Red Dress Club. Wow. I'm so sorry for your loss, and I thank you for the honest, moving post.
This was so beautiful, thank you for sharing.
Also stopping by from the red dress club.
Your writing is so painfully beautiful in this post. I'm at a loss for words, but just know it was so very touching.
Something that is so great here, other than the obvious beauty that you express through the pain of missing your dad, is the moment in which you found out that neither of you are smarter than a 5th grader. I've found that sometimes those small moments are the ones you remember the most, and it really brought a smile to my face. In my own life I can remember there were moments where my grandmother was dying and we didn't want to laugh, but there were still shared moments that were funny. That's how life is, and your writing really showed that.
Stopping in from the RDC and I look forward to reading more!
Beautiful. I am in tears literally. So honest and so easy to be involved in the story even though I don't know you or your family. Hugs!
I came from Red Dress intending to do some literary criticism, and I came out in tears and feeling understood.
You see, my own father died 3 years ago, and I STILL have those “I can't wait till he hears this” moments. My son is named after him, and my only regret is that they never got to meet.
That said, impeccable writing. I'll be back!
Beautiful. My father passed away when I was 6, but I think I would've loved him as ferociously as you loved yours.
This was deep, deep down writing. The kind I like. Thank you.
This . . .
“When the realization hits, it’s like the pause before a baby’s scream, that horrible moment when you know what’s coming, you can hear and see the great intake of breath, yet you can do nothing to stop the onslaught of sound and fury.”
I have known that pain. Nothing to do with my father, but I have known that pain.
Your words are all sparkly and magical.
I always think connections are magical.
Thank you for reaching out.
And connecting.
I've just come over from Pretty All True, and you've made me want to call my parents, at 6:30 in the morning, just to hear them answer the phone.
There was so much raw beauty and truth in this.
And I am so sorry for your loss.
@moveovermarypoppins Call them. I mean, wait until 9 so they don't think you've been hit by a Mac truck or something, but do call them. I wish I'd called more. And thank you so much for your kind words.
I stopped here via PrettyAllTrue.
I'm glad I did. You've written beautifully about the loss.
My father has been gone 6 years. I still miss him. My mother passed this last July. I miss her too.
I still want to tell them stuff. About their great-grandchild and how I now understand some of the annoying grandparent stuff they did for my daughter.
@Renee, thank you for stopping by, and I'm so sorry for your losses. I wonder when the urge to call stops? Maybe never.
Isn't it amazing how parenthood makes you all of a sudden understand the things your parents did and appreciate them in such a new light?
Angie- I've been listening (again) to Marianne Williamson's Return to Love lately and it's taken me back to thinking about my Dad and the fact that he's not in this physical world but still with me in a very real way. After 5 years, I remember those beautiful moments of forgetting but sadly, they're gone now. Now as a thought comes up, right along side it is the knowledge that my communication of the event must be delivered in a much different way.
Thank you for your honesty and courage. You ARE your candid voice and I admire you for that.
This is a beautiful post. I'm so glad Kris linked to it this morning.
I love what you said about your brain needing to think of and then talk about the worst case scenarios. I do that too. Verbal diarrhea my bff calls it.
I don't have much of a relationship with my dad. But your post has made me think I need to call him today.
I concur with the above. This is a beautiful post. My dad is my only real family. I fear the experience you have described. It is something I will never be ready for. However, you have described it beautifully.
wonderful words, and such true emotions. it's a day, a period in life, i don't look forward to. you put into words the look my mother always had on mother's day, when she had no one to buy a card for. i think through your eyes i have come to understand my mother in a way i never would have otherwise.
thank you!
@Rachel, I don't know how to feel about the fact that those moments of forgetting will go away. In fact, they're already starting to. Maybe it'll mean less pain, but the joy in that one millisecond before I remember is so powerful that I'd almost trade it. But it makes no difference how I feel b/c those moments will fade with time. And as they do, I'll probably struggle with that as well.
And thank you for liking my candid voice, even when it errs on the side of talking too much.
@Issa, so glad you stopped by. I enjoyed your post, as well. Call your dad. One day you'll wish you could, and you'll never regret having reached out.
@WTH thank you for the compliment. My family is pretty small, too, and that's one reason this has impacted me so deeply.
@Mrs. B thank you for dropping by. I loved your post, btw–left you a comment. And if I've helped you better understand your mother, then something good has happened today.
this is absolutely breathtaking. you used words to evoke so many powerful emotions. your dad sounds like he was a truly fascinating person…who loved you very, very much.
Angie – this is incredibly beautiful and sad and full of hope…sometimes I guess, that is what grief is.
Have you heard of Band Back Together (Aunt Becky from Mommy Wants Vodka started it up)? You need to submit this post there. It will help others dealing with grief.
It's beautiful, Angie. And I hope one day that I can write about my feelings like that.
I loved your writing here, Angie. My father died just over three years ago and although I never forget he's gone, I do have things I wish I could call and tell him about and then mourn again when I can't.
I know I've read this before but maybe it was too painful to comment at the time.
Just a beautiful, truthful post. Thank you for sharing.
Okay, this might be long, and for that I'm sorry…
My father died when I was two. I have not one single memory of him.
I am sad that he died, but I'm more sad that I never got to experience what it was like to have a father to love…to know what it feels like to have my father look at me with love and pride.
I always dreamed that one day I would have a husband and a daughter so that I could see this relationship firsthand. I wanted to see in my daughter's eyes what might have been in mine. I wanted to see my husband weaken at the mere sight of his baby girl.
And now I have that.
I hope this comes out right, but I hope that one day, my daughter, Katie, grieves over her father the way you do over yours…because that grieving is evidence of a true connection…a love that no one else could have given you but your father.
This is an amazing post, Angie, both in your sentiment and in your astonishingly beautiful writing.
Thank you…
@Natalie, it's funny you mention that, because this is exactly the post I was thinking of submitting to Band Back Together.
@Cheryl, thank you for your kind words. I am sorry for the loss of your father. It makes me wonder if we ever really stop grieving? Perhaps the process just changes over time.
@Nichole, you've made me cry. If there was one thing I've wanted to accomplish with this blog, it was to connect to people, and what you've said is so amazing, and pointed out to me something I hadn't seen. That may not make any sense, but I can't put it any more coherently until I find more Kleenex. But thank you for reading and yes, I understand your comment, and it may be the best comment I've ever gotten. Thank you.
@Grace, thank you for the compliment and I'm so glad you stopped by. Yes, he was an amazing person and he loved all of us. I don't think I really understood how much until I became a parent.
Oh, I still remember those early days, weeks, months after my mom died. I can't even tell you how many times I found myself with the phone in my hand, dialing her number to talk about something as silly as a new pair of shoes I'd fallen in love with or as serious as my heart was broken & I needed her advice. Those moments are etched in my memory now, that feeling of despair when I realized she wasn't going to be at the other end of the line. You described it so well. *hugs* to you in your loss.
Angie,
My wife directed me to your post today and said if I read nothing else online….to take the time to read your heartfelt words. First, what an amazing and beautiful post. I love exceptional writing and your words captured my heart in just a few short moments. Your words told a vivid story of love and pain and grief. I hope you find comfort in this release…
Second, it made me cry as well. Not only for your loss and your grief…but for my loss as well, as I lost my mother only 4 short months ago. And those final moments of the last breaths are an image that will never be far from the forefront of my mind. You brought me back…and I know exactly what you're going through when you refer to the memory hitting with a physical pain.
And lastly, it brought tears to my eyes because an earlier commenter, Nichole, is my wife. The relationship I have with my daughter is one of my most cherished possessions. I love that I can allow my wife to experience some of what she missed out on as a young girl through my daughters eyes. And I love allowing myself to envision a long life of mutual adoration and building a true connection throughout our lives.
Thank you. Thank you for your words and allowing me to experience the range of emotions as a result of them. Beautiful writing….
Angie,
This is a beautiful tribute.
I love how much you loved your dad.
What a special relationship you had, even if he never discussed it.
@Molly, thank you for coming by. You know, it is getting better. I wrote this in April, and it's now October. Definitely getting better. Don't think it will ever go away completely, though.
@Craig, you're @BooYaDad, right? I'm glad Nichole sent you over here, and I'm so sorry for the loss of your mother. Only 4 months ago…wow, you're right in the middle of some of the worst of it. It gets better. Writing has been a terrific release for me. Your comment, btw? May have eclipsed Nichole's as best comment ever. Certainly the pair of them together win. Wow. I'm so moved that these words touched you so deeply. You're right, the memory of those last moments may never be far from the surface, and it changes you, forever.
I'm so glad you and Nichole have your daughter, and I hope that as you grieve, she will help you heal and continue to provide solace to Nichole.
Thank you so much. Your words mean the world to me.
@cathyjoy, so glad you could stop by. Thank you for the compliment. And yes, it was a special relationship, and I'm only realizing how special now that I'm a parent myself.
Oh, deep breath…
I am coming up on the anniversary of my dad's death.
It has been..oh, 13 years now.
But I remember that day so well.
His death was sudden.
And I remember…he was supposed to fix my sink. We couldn't get the new faucet to work right, and he said the next time he came up he would fix it.
I stood in my kitchen and looked at the faucet and thought, “He can't be gone…he was supposed to fix my sink. He wouldn't leave without doing something he said he would…”
I remember the forgetting…those few heartbeats before I it slammed back into me. It's hard to shift your reality – those blocks are soooo big. It takes a long time.
I don't forget any more. It is more peaceful, if still full of grief. But I don't have that falling sensation any more.
What a beautiful post. I'm so sorry for your loss.
Hi there, I discovered your web site by way of Google even as looking for a similar matter,
your web site came up, it looks good. I have bookmarked it in my google bookmarks.
Hi there, just become aware of your weblog via Google, and located that it’s
truly informative. I’m gonna be careful for brussels. I will
be grateful if you proceed this in future.
Lots of folks can be benefited from your writing. Cheers!