Day 365

Otherwise known as... One Year Later

Today marks the 365th day since my father joined his parents and too many other good people gone too soon.  Tomorrow will be a year since his death.  A year.  I have replayed my memories of those last few days-- Christmas week-- so many times this year.  I remember my mother calling me the day after Christmas on the 11th mile of my 12 mile run in preparation of a half marathon I'd be running in a couple of weeks, and my telling her that I'd be over just as soon as I finished, to have breakfast and enjoy our Christmas company.  And when I did get there, my cousin Michael telling me that the family consensus was that I was in shape, since I had run 12 miles that day.  I had been the topic of conversation while I was out.  My dad was proud of my endeavors to improve myself.

Two days after that I had gone to dinner with my parents and my dad's best friend, Uncle Rick.  On the way home we looked at Christmas lights, and right there in the car I received my first call from GDA while he visited his family in Argentina.  I quickly exited the vehicle when we parked and retreated to the privacy of a spare bedroom while he told me about his Christmas.  After the call, I tried to convince my mother to come to class with me that night at Salsa Heat, just to watch, just to get out of the house.  She refused, saying that she didn't want to leave Dad, even though Uncle Rick was over.  I remember covering Dad's legs with a blanket before I left.  I remember smoothing blanket with my hands, caressing him.  He asked me to stay longer but I told him that I loved him and I had to go class, and with a kiss on his forehead I left.  

Mom, Dad, and Uncle Rick also asked me to go to breakfast with them before Dad's doctor's appointment the next morning.  I need to take my run.  I have to train.  The race is next week! 

I was tired of doctors, hospitals, surgeries, treatments, and cancer drugs, above all I was tired of my dad thinking he was going to die.  Dad!  You're going to be fine!  Six months from now all this will be over and you'll be fine!  I told him to stop being a baby.   It wasn't even something I needed to believe... it was something that was TRUE.  The latest surgery in early December to correct his double hernia was the very last step in the process.  Now he just needed to heal.  He was cancer-free.  Soon we could put all of this behind us and get back to normal.

In the morning, as I ran on My Small Town Lakefront's running path, I detoured up the path on Dakota, where a 1/2 mile path is carved out on an island in the middle of the street.  As I returned north, back towards the lakefront, a tan Buick Rendevous passed by, driving westward. 

That was the last time I saw my dad, but I didn't really see him... just his car.

That evening I went to an early dinner with Linette at Three Sisters.  We had just gotten our food when my phone started ringing.  I looked down at the screen.  Mom.  I'm going to let it go to voicemail.  She'll leave a message.  We're having dinner.  A few minutes later, Mom called again. 

You'd better get that, Linette asserted.  She was right.

Jennifer, your dad is having trouble breathing so I called 911 and he is going to the hospital.  I'm following the ambulance.

Okay-- I'll meet you there, Mom.

I looked at Linette, and now I can't believe I behaved in such a way, but I was annoyed.  Not just a little bit either.  Couldn't I just enjoy the evening out with my friend?  I was supposed to meet my friend Remon for what was to be our first bachata lesson at Salsa Heat.  I texted him as I got into my car.    My dad is going to the hospital.  I can't go to bachata tonight.

Then at the hospital, waiting with my mother.  Hearing the call for respiratory therapy over the intercom, I knew my father was being treated.  In my mind he was going to get a breathing treatment, he'd be released, and everything was going to be just fine.  Like I had repeated incessantly that fall, Dad, you're going to be FINE.

Except he wasn't fine.  He was gone.

I told my Auntie M. on Christmas that this would all be so much easier if Dad hadn't been so much fun.  If he hadn't given me and my mom and sister so much love, and so much of himself.  Yes, he lost his temper at times.  He was quite overweight and he didn't wear his ill-fitted false teeth, resulting in gaps in his smile that made me cringe.  He sometimes overindulged in sharing information about my personal life, which made me absolutely crazy.  Despite these imperfections, one thing I know for sure is that I grew up secure in the knowledge that my father loved me.

A lot of people can't say that, and for that knowledge, I am thankful. 

I wish with every fiber of my being that I been less selfish that last week of his life.  

Five days after I buried my father I ran a half marathon.  Still in shock, I felt as though I were floating.  I am sure he lifted me up that day, and I am sure if he could, he watched me cross that finish line.

I am now training for a second half marathon, the Princess, in February.  In a couple of weeks I am returning to school to get my certification in Educational Leadership.  This year has been difficult  to say the least, but I am clawing my way back to myself.  Grief takes time, and this past year it has held me prisoner, even as I tried to move through the stages, I kept getting stuck in my loss.

I watched my cousins on Christmas, a little bit jealous that they still had their dads, my uncles.  My mom and I cried together in church on Christmas morning, after we'd received Communion and spent our time talking to God.  A couple of hours later she was doing an Irish jig in my aunt's kitchen.  My mother has a remarkable spirit. 

We miss Dad, but Mom says that life must go on, and she's right.  I am so excited for the hope that a new year brings.  The pain experienced in 2012 was necessary, but 2013 holds the promise of joy.  I am ready.  I'm sure you are, too. 

This will be a... Happy. New. Year.