This is my least favorite day of the year.
As I write this, today is my father’s birthday. Five years ago he turned 70, and that night in his sleep he passed away suddenly while on a cruise with my mom and brother.
It was an atomic bomb detonated in my life that I’m honestly still trying to climb from the rubble of. As people who grieve understand, you don’t ever really get past it. You may have days or seasons where you believe you’ve reached a clearing in it all, some sort of emotional distance. You begin to function at a very high level for long periods of time and occasionally you even begin to think you’re “healed”. Then suddenly something happens; a scent, a thought, a song, a milestone, or a day on the calendar, and in an instant it’s ground zero and Day 1 all over again, and you’re buried and broken and you can’t see the light.
This is where I am today. I am beginning again; fresh wounds, new grief, history repeating. I’m not ashamed about this. I’m okay being not okay.
People say that when you lose someone you love, you learn things that you couldn’t learn any other way. This is true.
I’ve learned a deeper compassion for people in pain.
I’ve learned the near superhuman strength of my mother.
I’ve learned how once ordinary objects become sacred relics.
I’ve learned how much you can hurt and still hold it together on the surface.
I’ve learned that the acute pain gives you close proximity to the people you’ve lost.
I’ve learned that old memories returning are like surprise packages from Heaven.
I’ve learned that death will challenge your faith in ways you never imagined.
I’ve learned that after three years you still reach for the phone to call them.
I’ve learned that the way you grieve is the right way to grieve, because it is your way.
I’ve learned that you’d gladly trade everything you own for thirty more seconds with them.
I’ve learned how to cry in a restaurant bathroom and come out as if nothing happened.
I’ve learned to accept that my daughter will never remember her Papa, and to be okay hating this.
I’ve learned the joy in seeing your loved ones in your laugh, your reflection, your hands, your children.
I’ve learned to resent strangers who have their fathers and grandfathers and no empty chairs at the holidays.
I’ve learned that on some days, though not suicidal, you’ll wish you could die just to see them again.
I’ve learned that even though good people try to help, you ultimately have to grieve alone.
I’ve learned that no matter how old you are you never stop needing your Daddy.
I’ve learned the horrible accuracy of all those clichés about how we never have enough time with people we love, about how there are no ordinary days, and about the tissue paper-thin fragility of life.
I’ve learned that tears are a tribute.
I’ve learned that death just sucks, and that any other spin on it is just a valiant but failing effort to make lemonade out of some really bitter fruit.
But mostly I’ve learned just how big a hole someone can leave in your life; how massive a gap there is when they’re gone, and how we all fill that space for someone.
I do much of my work in words written for other people; trying to speak about life with some kind of clarity so that they can find themselves in those words and be encouraged. I’m not sure these words will do that, but these words are for me, because I need to say them; as prayers, as medicine, as thank you.
Today is my father’s birthday. He taught me so much in life. He is still teaching me.
Happy Birthday, Dad.
