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.
A REKD GIRL 