It was a tough week. I have been struggling with the days leading up to today. Happy birthday, Dad. I have no idea how it has been more than a year and a half; I miss you.
First, let’s get this out of the way. Yes, I appreciate the morbid. It helps me cope; I get it from my mom… But who wouldn’t want to know about all the strange and grisly ways there are to die in the nation’s first National Park? Yellowstone was designated as a National Park on March 1, 1872, so that’s almost 150 years of opportunity to die there. And Whittlesey has done a great job of compiling a comprehensive list of all of the deaths in the park.
There are a lot of ways to die! He covers drownings, falling into thermals, deaths caused by horses and wagons, falls, deaths caused by wildlife, exposure, poison gases, suicides, murders and more! Some, like deaths by wildlife, are less common than I would have guessed, with most of those being caused by grizzly bears (which is to be expected). It also impressed upon me that you should never, ever, go roaming around Yellowstone at night, in the dark. There are too many opportunities to fall in thermals, to fall off cliffs, to freeze to death (even if it isn’t winter), or to get eaten by a bear! I mean I knew this already, but apparently there are people who don’t.
The writing style, leaves a bit to be desired; Whittlesey compiles information and presents it in a matter of fact manner, rather than spinning a excellent story. At points it almost seems that bullets would be his preferred method. That said, it is still interesting, and I enjoyed where he was able to get additional information about a victim (or a perpetrator) from the folks that knew them.
If you love our National Parks, and have a fascination with the macabre, you are sure to like this book!
“It takes strength to make your way through grief, to grab a hold of life and let it pull you forward.” ~ Patti Davis, Author
My father died a year ago today. One full year without him, and a year of firsts. I still miss him like crazy.
When I was in college, my father tore his rotator cuff. My childhood home had a really steep driveway, and he slipped on some ice and fell down, catching his fall with his right hand. Dad was right handed, and he lost a lot of use in that arm. He couldn’t raise his arm above his shoulder anymore, and the doctors told him that he shouldn’t bowl anymore. My dad loved bowling; I never knew him to not be on a team or two, from as early as I could remember.
Dad got pretty mopey after his injury, and at one point was very down in the dumps feeling sorry for himself. I was over at my parents’ house when he was complaining that he couldn’t do things anymore, because he couldn’t use his right hand. The task at hand that day – changing the light bulb in the hallway.
I was annoyed by his attitude, and I got pretty snarky with him and told him he was just going to have to figure things out. I dragged a chair over to the hallway, pulled down the light fixture cover, and changed the light bulb, all with my left hand. I told him that if I could do it, so could he.
The next week, dad asked if I wanted to go bowling on Sunday morning. He was going to learn how to bowl with his left hand. We went together several Sundays, and talked about life and school and whatever came to mind, while he practiced left handed bowling. After a little time away, he went back to his league and spent the next 20-some years bowling as a lefty.
This morning I finished a 15K; the Hot Chocolate Run in Seattle. It was my second time doing this distance, although if you read here you know I have done many half-marathons.
I haven’t been training; I haven’t even been exercising as much as I normally do in the last several weeks since my dad died. I’ve just been trying to get through all the day to day stuff. Yesterday I felt like absolute garbage. But I didn’t want to bow out of the race.
While I was walking and jogging this morning, under a clear blue, cloudless sky, I was reminded that sometimes all you can do is keep putting one foot in front of the other, and keep looking up, and keep knocking the miles and tasks off the list. You just have to let the muscle memory take over. Even if you don’t feel like you can. Even if you don’t want to. Because you can do it. And someday, you’ll want to again.
I’m also blessed to be surrounded by amazing women who lift me up and carry me, even when they might not even realize they are. They are a big part of why I crossed that finish line this morning.
I finished the 9.3 miles in 2 hours, 14 minutes and 14 seconds, for a pace of 14:25 per mile. It wasn’t a fast time, and I didn’t run as much of the race as I normally would, but I finished.
Just keep going. You got this.
Grief is a funny thing. I read somewhere that you don’t work through it; that it works through you. I read that it is a manifestation of love; there is no grief without love. That sounds about right. It comes in waves. Some days you can feel remarkably alright. Other days it is all you can do to take a shower and eat enough. It would be easier if you could have some advance notice on which days would be which.
I never really thought about my dad dying. I mean, I guess I did, in an abstract sort of way, the way that all adult children know that that their parents won’t live forever. But not in any real, tangible way. My grandmother had other heart attacks before the end, and my grandfather had other strokes before the end, so I guess I was just expecting some sort of warning before it came. I don’t know which is easier, having no warning but knowing he didn’t have to suffer through some long, sad decline – or having the time to get used to the idea, but knowing he was in pain. And we don’t get to choose… You just get what you are given… That doesn’t stop us from going through all the “what-if’s”, does it?
Dad’s service was nice. “Nice.” That word we use to describe things that we have no interest in participating in, but no choice but to do. The pastor asked how many of us would rather be sitting at a wedding instead of Dad’s service, and I counted myself among that group, even though I don’t really like weddings much at all. But on a scale of weddings or funerals… I’m not a fan of baby showers either, if you must know the truth… I would rather have been anywhere else though, instead of listening to people talk about him in the past tense. I’m not ready for the past tense. Yet another thing about which I have no choice.
“You gave me a forever within the numbered days.” John Green, The Fault in Our Stars
I am my father’s daughter.
I have his analytical mind, his skin that resists sunburns, his love of peas and his awkward smile in photographs. I also have his asthma, his allergies and his appendicitis at the age of 27. Our eyes both crinkle when we laugh. Just like him, I can save money like nobody’s business. We are both Virgos. Plain yellow mustard is where it is at. I have his nose and his love of snow, although he loves driving in it and I don’t.
I was one of those children who grew up with both of my parents, married for my entire life.
We went camping when I was a kid in the maxi-van that was converted into a camper, seeing Yellowstone and taking the ferry up to Alaska before driving back down to the states. We went to Hawaii when I was 8, and Mexico when I was 9. Like me, he remembers dates. We spent Christmas in a snowstorm in Michigan the year I was 13.
I was an insomniac at an early age, and my dad would lead me through an exercise of tensing up all my muscles in turn, and then shaking it off, so I could relax enough to fall asleep. He would get up in the middle of the night when I had nightmares, and soothe me back to sleep. He let me sit on his lap in that big black Naugahyde chair while he watched the evening news and read the paper.
He taught me to play chess, checkers, Chinese checkers and Score Four.
He shared my love of photography. On a trip to Yellowstone when I was 6 or 7, he let me use the camera to take any picture I wanted. I couldn’t decide until I found the perfect subject. An elk carcass. He never told me no. I still have that picture. In high school, he gave me his old SLR camera and showed me how to use the timed exposure to photograph nighttime landscapes.
He cheered at my swim meets and hauled my horses to horse shows, even after he developed allergies to horses. He caved when I wanted yet another cat, even though we are both allergic to cats. He petted them when we weren’t looking.
We went for bike rides on the weekends. He and my mom grew a garden and dug potatoes and planted beets because I wanted them, even though neither of them like beets. He loved the corn.
He got up at 5:20 am every day of his working life and made fried eggs for breakfast. In middle school my bus came early so we ate breakfast together in the mornings. I wasn’t allowed to come to the dinner table in my pajamas.
The day my horse was so badly injured when I was 16, he cried with me, and never made me feel badly when I vomited all over the floor of his classic 1968 Cougar. He bought that Cougar new in 1968. When I was young we pretended that the map light switch was a turbo thruster. When I flipped it he would gun the engine up the hill towards home.
He needed routine and spontaneity made him uncomfortable. I am my father’s daughter, although I am a bit more flexible. If you needed him to do something, a few days’ notice was ideal. The teenage years drove him nuts, when I wanted him to drive me somewhere on a moment’s notice. He liked to do his Sudoku, read the paper, and watch his shows. Clockwork.
He tried to tutor me on my math homework, even though he could never understand why I just didn’t get how multiplying two imaginary numbers made a real number. He delighted in solving my extra credit algebra problems in college (you could use any and all methods at your disposal), and even cracked the one with ten variables and ten equations. I was the only one who came in with the correct answer. That said, proofreading my English papers was not his thing…
When my mom battled colon cancer 21 years ago, I saw a man who would have been devastated to lose her. It was the second time I ever saw him cry.
He was proud of me when I got my Bachelor’s degree, even though he didn’t really understand what I would do with a degree in Spanish. He was proud of me when I got my Master’s degree in business, and relieved that I had decided on something more practical.
In preschool, I sprouted a chestnut seed, and we planted the seedling in the back yard. When my parents moved away from that house I grew up in when I was 25, and they had to cut down that now big tree, my father had a wood turner make two bowls from its trunk. He gave me those bowls for Christmas.
He and my mom came to all my parties, met all my friends, and were always kind to them all. I had the kind of house growing up that my friends wanted to hang out at.
He always made me laugh in those days before caller ID when I called and said, “Hi Dad,” and he responded with “Who’s this?” I am his only daughter.
When I got divorced, he quietly supported me, listening as I ranted and cried and broke. It was the third time I saw my father cry.
When I told him that I wanted to build a bed in my car and camp in it for several months last summer, he designed a platform bed with legs that swung out of the way to access the storage underneath, and slide out shelves to hold my camp stove. We took the seats out of my car and we built it together.
I am now a fatherless daughter. My dad died unexpectedly on Tuesday morning, February 5. There is no word to define a daughter who has lost a father, but I now join the ranks of all those other daughters who miss their dads.
Our relationship wasn’t perfect, but I am blessed to have had him. It wasn’t enough time. It was too soon.
I feel selfish; I got more from my dad than many daughters will ever receive. But I still wanted more. I am devastated to know that I may very well live more years without my dad than with him.
My heart is broken. I will miss you forever, Dad.