Wednesday, January 4, 2012

The Worst Day of the Year

"He's not missing anything. We just miss him." -My Director, last night after I said I can't believe everything my dad's missing.

I wish this day could be a celebration-of-life day. But it's not. I wish I can mark this day by doing something he loved. But I don't. I wish my family can look back on this day and remember his life, not his death. But we can't.

This day sucks. Still. It's sad. Still. I just want to forget it. Still.

I opened the hallway closet the other day and squatted down to get Luna one of her special twirly rawhide treats that we keep in her little drawer in there. The Peanut followed me. I turned to look at her because I thought it was cute that she wanted to be part of this little ritual. I caught a glimpse of myself in the mirror on the inside of the door. And I saw my dad. His face. His eyes. His hairline. His smile. Him.

And knowing this day was coming, I started to miss him again. For the sake of the Peanut I didn't allow my sudden grief to consume me. But it hovered, like an ominous cloud.

Today, that cloud pounded me with buckets full of rain.

It's been nine years now. Nine years since we lost him. Nine years since our lives, our foundation, were rocked. Sometimes it seems like 90 years. Sometimes it seems like yesterday.

I miss him helping me, and aggravating me while doing it
I miss him. I miss his voice, his hugs. I miss his irrational hatred for hazelnut coffee, It's a Wonderful Life, and Bernie Williams. I miss talking football and baseball with him. I miss talking about life with him. I miss busting his chops for getting a manicure before our wedding. I miss challenging him to Trivial Pursuit, and losing.

I know if you read this blog regularly you expect me to find the hidden meaning. To end on a high note. To accentuate the positive. But I'm sorry. Not today. I just can't do it. 

This day sucks. It reminds me of our worst nightmare. A nightmare from which we never awoke.

So I'm sorry if I'm incapable of being upbeat today. I'm sorry if my sarcasm doesn't come with a friendly smirk today. I'm sorry if I don't want to laugh at your joke today.

I just want it to be tomorrow. I'll still miss him. But at least it won't be today.

12 comments:

  1. I'm so sorry for your pain and also scared for I know one day I'll be able to say, 'I know how you're feeling' and I never want that day to come

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  2. Justin, I know what you are feeling. My dad passed 20 years ago last August. What I wouldn't give to spend just one more hour with him to tell him all about what has been going on in my life and allow him to meet my grandchildren.....his great-grandchildren. We had wonderful fathers. We were blessed. Yes, they are in us and we carry them with us ALWAYS. Sending you hugs today. Love ya.

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  3. I followed your blog because of the way you talk of your kids. I'm trying to be better and your blog offers a reasonable and manly perspective of that.

    I saw your blog title in my follow stream and felt compelled to read. I have my dad on my brain now and was about to write something in my blog about him, in fact. Pretty timely. Kismet, as some might say.

    I've been feeling the absence of my dad a lot during the Holidays but for different reasons than yours (we just lost him around my birthday, late last year). My feelings are complex and messy, but they're all bad and I've nothing positive to say to myself or anyone else.

    What I can offer is the empathy of a stranger. You seemed to have a good relationship with your dad in ways that I would envy, were mine still alive. I can honestly say that I don't know what's better or worse. But like you, I've seen him in myself - actions, phrases, mannerisms. It's a vicarious immortality.

    However, what helps me when I think of his absence is that somewhere among the oxygen and nitrogen molecules of our Earth, microns of him sway with the breeze. They fall with rain upon the soil, grow with plants, then reach for the Sun as they grow.

    I don't know you but I wish you the best.

    Take care,
    Chris

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  4. I do not know what you are going through, but I can empathize with you. I am very sorry for your loss and the pain that you are feeling today, and probably every day.
    Not every day can be a good one, Hang in there.

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  5. This is painfully beautiful, honest, and raw. You have made me stop and realize how blessed I am that my dad is still alive. And I am going to call him right now. Thank you. May tomorrow bring a smile, friend.

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  6. The worst is the best. Best because it is great that you miss him. That you miss all the good that he brought, did and said to you. Keep the memories alive.

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  7. I'm so sorry I can't even imagine. I love your Director's quote though. <3

    Jamie
    For Love of Cupcakes

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  8. Thank you everyone for your kind words. I didn't intend to write this. I didn't intend to write anything for this day, in fact. But I sat on the train and started typing on my blackberry and this just came out. So did the tears. But I think it was cathartic, and necessary.

    I appreciate everyone who took a minute to read this. It keeps his memory alive even more. -DKL

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  9. It has been nearly 6 years since I lost my dad, and I share many of your feelings and emotions. The bad news is those feelings, memories and stories will always be fresh in your mind. The good news is that exact same thing. Blessings to you.

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  10. I don't know what you're going through although someday I will and that scares me. My dad is my rock and thanks to you I will make an effort to keep in touch with him better. You have brought tears to my eyes today and made me grateful for what I have. I'm so sorry you have to go through this.

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  11. It is still a day that causes me to stifle the sob. I have erratic memory moments that pop open with no chronological order, all of which conjure a lump in my throat. It truly makes me want to appreciate our time here with those we love because it can change in an instant.

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  12. Oof. I feel your hurt through your words. Isn't that the best tribute to someone? The words and the cut so close to the bone you feel it throbbing.

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