Month: April 2016

If there’s something to know about me, it’s that I don’t take myself too seriously. I’ve dragged countless friends on countless carousels across the world over the years, and danced whenever the mood called for it – even if it’s on a dark road, stopped by a train with the boy who had my heart.

It’s this freedom to be silly with a total sense of abandon. It’s the best gift my dad ever gave me and has become such a fundamental part of who I am as a person.

Dad and I had a wonderful shared sense of humor. Whenever I’d come home, I’d enter through the garage door where the living room sits just around the corner. Dad would often be nestled there in his chair when I’d barge in shouting “your favorite child is home!” And never missing a beat, I’d turn the wall to him exclaiming “but I don’t see your brother anywhere!” with this enamored grin as he’d stand up to give me a hug. That’s just how we got along, in this endearing, playful way.

One of my favorite memories was from a few months before he was diagnosed. We took our first family vacation in over a decade, which in retrospect was some very fortunate timing. At dinner one night, I started folding a piece of paper into the shape of a bird, playfully tapping it across the table. Dad joined in picking up his napkin, and before I knew it we both were creating hand puppets and laughing so hard we were crying and barely saying anything at all, while my mom and brother looked at us from across the table like we were crazy. And we both were, on the upside of crazy that is, and we didn’t apologize for it.

The last two years, from dad’s diagnosis to navigating life without him, have been anchored with so much frustration and sadness, that finding moments to be silly isn’t just welcome, but necessary. To let the worry give way to laughter. It’s been especially helpful now. We’re coming up on the anniversary that no one wants to celebrate, and without realizing it, I think it’s made us all more deeply sensitive than usual. I’ve noticed it in myself, where that anger is quietly born again into all that I do.

But this past weekend, I took a walk to enjoy the onset of spring and happened across a park with a set of swings near its back. Even now, at 31, I can’t resist a swing. I’ve stopped many runs and walks to sit at one and feel young again when I come upon a playground. So I did – I nestled into the rubber seat and began pumping my legs, and as I swung higher and drew the clear, blue sky closer, I let out a really genuine, free laugh.

You see, dad always knew how to make things better. And even though he’s not with us anymore, here he was, still helping me across place and time. Because he gave me the ability to help myself.

From a young age, I learned from a very smart man that life is too short to be serious.

Thank you, dad.

The word “acceptance” has gotten tossed around a lot in the last 11 months. Like something I have to check off of a to-do list. I’ve been told I need to accept my father’s death. But I can’t. And I won’t.

To me, acceptance implies I’m in some way OK with what’s happened. That I have an understanding of why things unfolded as they did – but I’ll never embrace the idea that there was any reason for this to happen. Or how it happened. Or when it happened. All I can do is adjust to it, absorb it as a part of me and understand that life is very different now. And maybe someday, I will make peace with it. But I won’t accept it – I can’t.

Dad, I think, could – and did. He always had the strength to do what others couldn’t.

When he was diagnosed, “environmental” was all the explanation doctors could offer when trying to identify the origin of his cancer. It wasn’t genetic, it wasn’t behavioral. Environmental. Which is really just another way of saying they had no idea. He was just unlucky.

After he died, there was an endless trail of questions with no answers at its end. Chief among these was “why?” Why him, why now, why this way? And of all the questions, questions about how we approached treatment, of doctors’ decisions, of what we could have done differently or what could have helped us find it sooner, why this had to happen at all is the one that drives a wedge between grief and understanding. It’s what fans my anger and has turned my mind in endless circles on many nights.

No answer, even if there could be one, would be good enough. The only reassurance I had was to think about who dad was. Someone who was larger than the moment he was in. How he viewed each day through an adventurous, hungry eye. That man, he flew planes, skied mountains, dove to the ocean’s depths and more. And he shared this appetite for life with others. He made you want life the way he saw it – bigger, better. He saw a great full world in front of him and wanted to swallow it whole. And he gave back too. He’d help anyone that asked and many who didn’t – spending so many hours putting others’ needs before his own, whether it was helping the neighborhood kids with math homework, or fixing a friend’s car. That’s just who he was.

Whenever all four of us were home, we’d sit in the living room enjoying each other’s company over cocktails and conversation as twilight gave way to the early morning hours. And in many of those nights and conversations, dad would lean back in his leather recliner, legs crossed. You could see a reflective pause come over him, when a grateful smile would part his lips and he’d raise his hands for emphasis, saying: “this is what it’s all about.” This. These moments. All of us together. Of opening up to a love for others greater than yourself.

It’s not fair, but maybe dad didn’t need as long as a lifetime – some people just don’t need as much time to get it right.

Just after dad died, the oddest things upset me. Like hearing the faucet turn on through the shallow wall between my parents’ bathroom and my bedroom. When I was little, it signaled dad getting ready for work, and that he’d shortly come to my room to wake me. He was always the first one out the door before the sun came up, at O-Dark-Thirty as he called it. But before he did, he would tread quietly to the edge of my bed, and rub my back saying “rise and shine!” in something just stronger than a whisper.

And his truck. It was parked, back end to the garage like it always was. And every time I came around the soft curve of our street – I’d see it there as if he was home. It’s these little things, strange things, that sent me reeling, and often times still do.

After my brother cleaned the truck out, I crawled into the driver’s seat to check it over and rifle through the center console. A first aid kit, loose change, a pair of reading glasses – mundane things that collected as he went about his days. I can see him writing down instructions for a tool, or reaching for a bandaid when he’s cut his finger. But just being in there was intoxicating. It smelled like him. The smell of a long day’s work, of dirt and grease and oil and milling through a garage, buried under machines he was fixing.

Mom has already cleaned out most of his clothes, and I understand why. Walking into their shared closet every day and seeing his clothes hanging was a painful reminder that he wasn’t there. I took a number of his things – a polo shirt he wore often out to dinner, sweatshirts he spent lazy days in and, my favorite, this light sweater he wore on so many cool summer mornings when he was doing things around the yard, like vacuuming the pool with his coffee. I’ve worn it several times, closing my eyes to take myself back to those mornings when I’d walk out onto the deck and see him outside. In ways, it brings comfort, hugging the fabric tight against my chest – but always leaves me wishing my arms were holding more.

All of these things haunt in an unexpected way. But the house, for whatever reason, never has.

I am very attached to my parents’ house. Crazy attached. Sitting on the deck on a warm day watching the sun shine over a calm of grass and water is my most favorite thing. It’s where I feel happiest. And safest. Especially during all of the years I lived far away. I’ve spent my whole life growing, and learning, and screwing up in that house. I’ve sat with friends and family over the years filling it with unending laughter and tears. And as hard as it is to go back to that moment, it’s where we watched dad become something greater than his body, and leave us. That lot on Knudsen, is very much a part of me.

And being there has brought me a sense of peace – even if he’s not sitting in his favorite chair or tinkering in the garage. Because he’s touched every inch of that house. I can remember him laying grout in the kitchen or fixing a bathroom sink. So it helps to be where he’s been. Where he’s laughed, and slept, and sweat.

The other night though, I had a horrible dream that the house was burning. It woke me from one of the deepest sleeps I’d had in days with a heavy feeling as if I was losing dad all over again.

Because, truth is – even though it may just be a patchwork of tile, and carpet and plaster, it was his home.

I know the day is coming, when we’ll need to go through the rest of his stuff, and release it. That the day will come when we might sell the house. It’s just things, I know, but it feels like erasing what traces of him are left. It’s just so horribly final.

Letting go of any piece of him is hell.

The day before Easter, there’s always a service to bless baskets and all of the goodies that fill them. It’s usually some hard-boiled eggs, cookies, maybe some cuts of meat. That’s what my mom would always bless – in one of her baskets, anyway. But there was always a second basket, one that would clink and clank as we walked into the church gathering space. Champagne that we would pour Easter morning for mimosas. Wine to accompany dinner. And whiskey, always whiskey. It’s become a family staple over the years.

It all started with my grandfathers. They’d toast with whiskey to mark occasions that brought us all together – birthdays, holidays, weddings. But also, funerals. They grew close over the years, as they became more like family and less like in-laws. From how I remember it, one gifted the other with a bottle of Bushmills and a simple ask – whoever goes first, use this to celebrate all of wonderful moments they shared. And we did, for both of them over the years. And we continue toasting for everyone we’ve lost whenever we’re gathered for those occasions that bring us all together – birthdays, holidays, weddings and funerals.

One important thing about grief that no one ever tells you about – is how you have to balance the grief of others against your own. It’s been a hard lesson. The revolutions of emotion my mother, my brother and myself go through are ever-changing and unpredictable. You lean on one another, but don’t want to amplify each other’s pain in doing so. It’s caused some very raw, and difficult moments.

It can hard to be honest and sensitive at the same time. Someone may want to reminisce about dad or talk openly about how they’re coping, when someone else needs a break from the riptide of feelings they’re battling.

For me, it’s typically helped to keep dad part of the conversation. I’m hungry to hear stories about him when he was younger, or recall happy moments. But not everyone has felt that way, and I’ve tread lightly in kind. We’ve all tread lightly, trying not to upset one another.

But on Easter, something shifted. We weren’t worrying or dancing around grief in the ways we had been. Us three came together and sat at the kitchen island talking and laughing for hours – talking and laughing about dad. And it was more freeing then probably anything else has been in the past few months.

But maybe, most importantly, we poured this year’s blessed bottle of whiskey and raised our glasses high, toasting dad with smiles, finally, instead of tears.