Tag Archive | grieving

Two Months Gone

It’s been two months since my dad died.  Life goes on – in many ways it speeds by faster than we ever expect or even want it to.

I still miss him terribly and think about him everyday.  I think about the new job that I will never talk to him about.  I think about the financial things I can’t ask him for advice on.  I think about how much I know my mom misses him and I hurt for her.

I don’t cry every day anymore, but I still cry.  It hits me at unexpected times.  Sometimes I think I’m doing ok, and then I’m suddenly not.  Like writing this post – although I suppose that could have been expected.  His marker at the cemetery niche arrived two weeks ago and when I went to visit him, I cried harder than I have in a while.  There wasn’t any new, fresh realization that he is gone, just a fresh wave of pain.

Blogger Lauren Herschel summed grief up pretty well with a theory she heard from her doctor.  The ball in the box.  The ball starts out being a really big ball in the box, and there is a pain button on the side of the box.  When it bounces around, it hits the side of the box all the time and causes pain.  Gradually, the ball gets smaller, and it doesn’t hit the side of the box quite as often.  When it does though, it still hurts just as much.  Grief is like that.  You can read about it, because she does a better job explaining it (with pictures).

So as time marches on, I find myself smiling again, and laughing.  There is joy and happiness in life, and I don’t want to miss that.  But I still miss you dad.

Advertisements

Muscle Memory

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.

My Father’s Daughter

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.

Dad and me in Michigan

 

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.

Dad on a bike ride in Michigan

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.

My parents and me at my Aunt Elaine’s

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.

My parents and me at my wedding

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.

Dad and the Car Build

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.

 

Rest in Peace, Larry

I found out on Wednesday night that my former boss passed away on Monday.  As far as I know he wasn’t sick.  He was going on a fly fishing trip in early October and had still been working and vacationing.  He was in his late seventies though; that age when even if someone’s death is a shock, it isn’t necessarily a surprise.

I knew Larry for seventeen years.  I met him when I took a few classes at the community college after I got my MBA and graduated in the middle of a recession.  I interned for him, and he took me under his wing.  He took me to meetings, gave me projects to build my skills in my career field, and exposed me to influential people in the community.  He didn’t have to do any of it…  He was a true mentor.

He helped me get my first career job, calling my soon-to-be-supervisor to give me a great reference.  I got the job.  Then when an opening came up where Larry worked and I had interned, he called me to let me know he wanted me to come back and work for him.  We worked together for eight years until he retired in 2009.

Larry taught me a piece of career wisdom that I will never forget.  You work someplace as long as it works for you.  There is no faster way to make your life suck than to dislike your job.  The people are just as important as the work, and those people aren’t likely to change, at least not fast enough for it to matter.  You spend too much time there to be unhappy.  The same is true for your personal relationships.

He showed me that you can be professional and still have a great sense of humor.  He loved to lighten the mood in a tough situation, and didn’t take life, or himself, too seriously.  I loved working for him.

Larry and I stayed friends over the years, through different jobs of mine and consulting work of his, to personal joys and trials.  He moved to Nevada for a sunnier and more affordable retirement, but we stayed in touch through texts, phone calls and visits.  He was frequently back in my area doing consulting work, which let us get together from time to time over a bottle of red wine.

I talked to him about getting together in Nevada in October while I was on my road trip, but he was out of town on the days that I was there.  I didn’t know at the time that it would be the last time we talked.

True friends come along rarely in this world, and I will always be grateful that I had the experience of having a boss and mentor become a real friend.  I know a lot of people felt that way about him.

Rest in peace, Larry.  You are very, very missed.