I just read a post from a facebook friend who lost her mom a couple months after I lost my dad. In short it stated that she disagrees with the "it gets easier with time" philosophy. It made me think of an e-mail I recently got from my childhood best friend, who was like another daughter to my dad, that said her husband still chokes at thoughts of his mom after losing her more than 10 years ago.
I would say that I whole-heartedly agree. "Easier" is so the wrong word.
In the past nearly four years that my son with Down syndrome has been in our world, we've learned to celebrate the hell out of everything, big or small. It's usually the littlest things that bring us the most joy. It is a wonderful gift to have that kind of perspective.
But on the other side of the coin, I'm learning that what hurts the most in a huge loss like my Dad are also all the little things.
It's things like looking to April on the calendar to see "Dad-57" on April 23rd and knowing he's not here to see that birthday. Or taking my 5 year old shopping for Valentine's cards and after she selects one for Grandma & Grandpa for my in-laws, having to steer her to the "Grandma only" cards for my side. It's in the fact that although this weekend is the 7-month anniversary of his death, I can't stop saying "my parents," "they," "he says" and everything in the current tense.
Or when anyone in my family is having an especially hard day and I can't do anything about it. Or when I run into my Dad's hair-twin at my son's preschool and all I can oddly think is "I just want to touch that hair."
It's in my baby's eyes and smile...I sometimes see him there. It is so wonderful and so sad at the same time, that sometimes all I can do is snuggle my baby in close and let out a tear.
There are about 100 little things a day that make me think of my dad. And one may think that that should bring some sort of peace.
I try to tell myself to be comforted by all the amazing memories that I have. After all, I am lucky for the time and the experiences I did have.
And while I'm doing that, I honestly can hear my Dad saying, "It's okay, Jame. You're going to be fine." But sometimes, more often than I'd like to admit, my own voice answers back in my head with, "But it's not f-ing fine, Dad!!!!!"
Oh, how he hates it when I swear. See, there it is again with the present tense.
The reality of his loss and the lonesomeness for him grows each day.
All the little things.
When people say it gets easier with time, is that because all those little things start to fade from your memory?
As painful as they may often be, there's so many little things I hope I never lose.
