Hi Dad,
I am missing you today. Ruminating over all the things I didn’t get to say and all things I wish I could have said. I treated you poorly in the end. I was angry. Being all consumed in my own selfishness. My relationship, that was crumbling. My body, that was…is, hanging on by a thread. Despite it doing a hell of a job keeping me alive. My mind playing tricks on me due to major hormonal imbalances. My job sucking the very soul from my being. Though not little in impact, not excuses for my behavior. This is what I am learning through therapy because I’m a toddler again.

I was impatient with you. I was angry with you for getting old and not being the man I used to rely on. And yet, you were still the one person in my life I could count on no matter what. In my most desperate times your answer was always, “you can come home, love.” Home meaning, you.

Where am I to go now?

I’m not sure how to let this go, this amount of grief. This amount of love I have for you with no where to go. This feeling of emptiness. This hollowness deep within my chest. This piece of myself I can never get back. It’s just so… final.

I thought the grief from the estrangement of my mother, would end me. Then I thought the grief from my 11 year relationship ending, would finish me.

You always knew just how devastated I was by both.

And always knew what to say, “He really did you wrong with that whole situation.” And when words couldn’t suffice you’d sit with me and carry some of the weight for me. “Your mother…long silence…I hope one day you’ll be able to come together. You need your mother. Everyone does.”

Yet, it’s gains of sand in comparison to this. This emptiness. This endless void. The loneliness is so seductive in how it taunts and torments me. The loss of you.

My last days with you were too short. Not enough. I didn’t get to take care of you enough. Brush your hair enough. Make you more cuppa’s with biscuits. Fluff your pillows enough. Answer your endless questions about the plan for the day enough. Listen to you repeat yourself and your stories. Love you. Hug you. Hold your hand. Hear you call me ducky or love. Make jokes about your died eyebrows to hear you laugh. Listen to you tell me, “you’ll never believe what I did” paired with that silly little giggle that would radiate through your whole body, shaking you from head to toe before the story even began.

Though, there were great moments. I was human. Too tired of hospitals. Of travel. Of family. Of drama. Of this capitalistic society. Of relationships. Of always being on high alert. Of restlessness. As you would say, “it was great, and it was fun, but it wasn’t great fun.“

It was the last time you hugged me. I was off to Oregon to see my mom’s side of the family for Ryan, my cousin’s, memorial. He committed suicide in March of this year. When you hugged me paired with your famous phrase, “do good things“, I had this strange voice telling me to really hug you. Really and truly hug you – it will be the last time.

I thought, “Lady, are you crazy? That thought is nuts.” Then almost immediately, “Am I going to die on this plane ride to Oregon? Maybe this is it. Maybe this will end my suffering. At least it will be quick…“

I never thought you could be the one leaving.

You were the superhero. There’s no way you could be leaving. You always bounced back from the most difficult things with ease, grace, and maybe a bit of complaining. Like your subdural hematoma. You had a brain bleed in your 80’s. Survived brain surgery. Made it through recovery in the IUC. And not even a month later, you were dancing samba in the kitchen with that silly little grin on your face. You were invincible.

Dealing with age is a tricky. Especially the aging of your parents. I hope if I have kids one day they have more patience than I did with you.

I used to get so frustrated with you because you got “old”. So, you were a bit slower to understand or catch on to things. And maybe you required extra context for certain topics. You also required so much extra patience. Somehow, I looked up and I had turned into the parent. Deep down, I was mad. I still wanted to be a kid. I selfishly still want to be taken care of.

I wasn’t ready to grow up yet. Somewhere in my life, can’t I just still be a kid? At least in this place with you, can’t I just go back to being your daughter?

Ever since I began working for you in 2014, I slowly slowly became the adult in the relationship. And selfishly, I just wanted to be a daughter leaning on her big strong Dad a bit longer.

I was so selfish. You poor poor poor man. 90 years old and I was demanding to be taken care of. And when you couldn’t, I responded with impatience. I was tired of taking care of you. Which I am sure you felt the exact same way with me growing up. I was a bit of a nightmare…

I tested your patience all the time. I remember annoying you so very much as a kid. Especially in the car. Pushing all the buttons I could find; messing everything up just after you finished getting everything in all the right spots. Exactly how you wanted it. I had a talent for this.

But you loved me unconditionally. Even when I made big mistakes. Life changing mistakes.

I used to be so good at being patient with you and making you laugh. Working with you was probably my most favorite time in my life. Going into work and hearing you say your little sayings from down the hall in your office; talking to yourself. “I may not be the fig plucker, nor the fig pluckers son, but I’ll pluck the fig until the fig plucker comes!” “Common’ Georgie boy”

Or prancing into my office with a cheeky grin, your hands clasped together over your chest, asking “whatcha doin?” and then immediately sticking out your finger with the cheekiest grin “pull my finger.”

Goofy. Childish. So silly. And so proud of yourself!

I wish I could remember those late night talks in your office. They were so precious and meaningful. I remember thinking, “oh, this moment is important. Please Alex, don’t forget this moment. You will treasure it one day.” But my mind cannot remember for the life of me what we talked about. No matter how hard I try, I can’t access it.

But I do remember the scent of cedar wood, varnish, and lacquer. Sometimes the light scent of lemon lingering from your antique desks and shelving after a fresh oiling. Or the subtle scent of vanilla mixed with your cologne. Oak, cinnamon, black pepper and cloves from your cigar boxes.

I remember the plush, velvety leather cushion of the chairs opposite your desk. Sinking into the black leather, tracing my fingers over the round gold buttons on the trim on the armrest. Listening intently on life reflections and wisdom you had to offer.

The low hum and steadiness of your voice. Watching you readjust and position every paperweight, icon, notepad, on your desk until it met your standards of being just right. Looking at the large wooden bookshelf behind you taking up the entire space of the wall, adorned with all your awards, achievements, and leather bound books. Your life.

I remember the warmth of a fresh cuppa tea I made you, walking back into your office to hear dice rattling on your desk, “let’s see how lucky we are today, ducky“

I remember you teaching me I Ching and the Philosophy of Change. Everything being on constant flux and aligning ourselves with this natural flow. I remember listening to your thoughts on always improving and always growing to be better. Having the mindset of a beginner, no matter how advanced you are in any subject. What I would do to have one more meaningful chat in your office.

There’s just no final warning to the quiet truth of everyday life. These seemingly ordinary moments that don’t reveal their true weight until they’ve quietly left.

They blend together into a background of ordinary life, feeling no different than the previous days, weeks, months, years. Until suddenly it’s gone. You look up, confused, looking for what was just so easily in your grasp, thinking, “It was just here. I just had it. How did it slip through my fingers so quickly?”

I wish I could tell myself to remember this and apply it to my everyday life now. But life is just so hollow, numb, and heavy right now. I know I need support. I’m just not sure it’s safe enough to ask for it anywhere else. You were my safety. You were my home.

Though I believe you are always with me, you’re missing from me in this life.

Love you, Dad. I’ll keep writing.

Until then,
xoxo