We're coming up on year two of losing Dad, so as always, I'm going to be writing about it here when I need to.
Two years. Un-effing-real.
Last night, I read the editoral that Charlie Mitchell wrote for Dad, and it ripped my heart out, but it was really good to read. If you want to read it again, it is here.
I wish I could call him and talk to him. I wish I could give him a big old hug and kiss. I wish I could do our nighttime ritual. I wish I could beat him at thumbwrestling. I wish I could see his face and hear his laugh.
I am sad that there are no new photos of Dad and me. All those photos have already been taken.
I can't wrap my mind around what he must have been feeling this time two years ago. Our brains are only capable of handling so much--we can't comprehend infinity or eternity, so how can a human process that they are about to die? I know that it kept slipping his mind--whenever it came up he was always surprised. But gosh, how do you handle that? On Thanksgiving, we had so many visitors, loved ones and friends and relatives all came pouring into the house to see him, and Dad was on cloud nine. He grinned his big grin and at the end of the day said it was the best Thanksgiving he could remember. What a blessing that he was able to have that.
As something like this should, it makes you rethink everything. What is important? What are we all doing? What are we supposed to do? Why do we worry about material possessions and our personal wealth when really, what does that matter anyway? Life experiences, memories, love, friendships--that's what matters. It just makes me want to get rid of anything extra that I don't need. Pare down to just a few essentials and momentos. Pay off my debt and see the world.
It all just boggles my weary little head when I think about it. I know he had a great life, I know he had amazing friends, I know he was proud of his children, I know he experienced true love, I know he accepted his disease, I know he questioned his disease. I don't know what he thought about his life or about dying. I don't know how he was able to accept his fate. I don't know the physical and emotional pain he was in. I know he is in a better place now, and I know that I will continue to talk to him in my head and in my dreams.
I miss the shit out of him.
(These are both Easter photos, but its a holiday nonetheless, and I love them.)
