One year ago I was getting ready to return to work after maternity leave. That means one year ago was the last time I spent "real" time with my dad.
I took the baby and went to the other side of the state to see my parents' new home. My dad and I laughed as we hung stuff on mom's kitchen wall and tried to beat the young kids on TV at Jeopardy. Whether it is thanks to growing up in a funeral home, or from hearing my dad say my entire life that he wasn't going to live to be an old man, I have always had a hard time with goodbyes. I remember even with all the hormones being whacked out, that I was able to keep it together as I hugged each of them goodbye that Sunday. Of course once I drove away I allowed myself to get my sadness/anxiety over with.
July 21 was my last "real" conversation with him. I remember it like it was yesterday. He had left messages for me at all three of my phones. I called him back as I came out of an off-site meeting. I sat in my van and we laughed. He was incredibly jolly that day. I'm so incredibly thankful for that phone call. One regret I do have is the voicemail itself. I have a hard time deleting good messages from people I love -- again -- same as the goodbyes. I just want to hold onto those things. I remember sitting in that parking lot and fighting with myself about not needing to save his voicemail. It's something I've been doing for as long as I've had a cell phone. Eventually I do delete. But I usually have one saved from mom and one saved from dad. I fully understand this is weird and probably unhealthy to think like that, hence the debate in the parking lot that day. I decided to let it go as I felt I needed to stop being so anxious about that.
What do you know. The one time I win my battle with anxiety is the one time I wish I wouldn't have. He was so happy on that message. I wish I could still listen to it over and over.
July 4 was six years since my grandpa died. June was 14 years since my other grandpa died. Apparently summers aren't good for us.
July 23, shortly after 7 is when I got the call. Midnight is when I saw my dad in the hospital and communicated with him for the last times. July 25 at 6:44 p.m. is when he officially left us.
My husband asked me why I'm so fixated on all the "lasts" instead of all the happy things. He gets why anniversaries and holidays are hard, but he doesn't get the lasts. I don't have an answer. I am trying not to, but it just seems to be where my mind goes without my intention of it.
Some days it feels like it's been so long. Some days it seems like yesterday. And some days I still briefly have moments of not believing that he's gone.
I so miss him every single freaking day.
