I went from crying multiple times every single day to crying once or twice a day. From there, I cried every day, but mostly when something reminded me of my Dad. In recent months, I mostly found myself crying in the car to music because my Dad loved music so much. A few weeks ago, my husband and I went to his father’s property in Southern Ohio where I found a Netflix station that had a Bruce Springsteen special from his Broadway show. I enjoyed the entire show but then found myself crying my eyes out at the end.

Today was a different story. I worked all day and then turned on music when I was making dinner (like so many other nights). I got emotional, but almost in a happy way. It wasn’t until I went to my office to pay bills that my grief hit me once again. My dog (Jax) was laying on my white faux fur rug, just where he laid all of the nights that I worked and my Dad came back to spend time with me. It brought back so many memories from those last few weeks that I got to spend with him. I found a photo of this very memory and just wanted to share it.

Grief has no timeline. It hits you when you expect it to, but it also hits you when you least expect it. It has been over 13 months since I lost the most impressionable person that I will ever have in my life. My dad was my hero, my rock. I still have moments that I think I should call him just to be hit by the awful reality that he is no longer here with me.

I don’t know that I will ever get over the loss of my Dad. I don’t know that there will ever be a day that passes that I don’t think about him.

When my husband turned 40, I gave him a gift, and that gift was a stopwatch that I had engraved, and the most important part of that engraving were the words “you are my rock”.

My husband is my rock, but I don’t think that anyone, even a husband, can ever fill the shoes of your father.

I miss him so much every day.

I guess this post is to say that losing someone as important to you as a father is something that you cannot prepare for. This was the person that protected you when you were young, but also protected you as you got older. It was the person that you knew  you could always count on, no matter what life brought your way.

Dad, I appreciate you so much and I wish that I would have had more time to tell you that. I hope that you know that you were the most influential person in my life, and no one can ever replace that.

Rest easy Dad! I love you!

Today marks exactly one year since I heard the most dreadful 6 words…

You have stage IV lung cancer

My dad and I sat in the oncologists office anticipating his biopsy results. The doctor walked in, sat down, and wasted no time informing us of my fathers diagnosis. I can’t blame her for being so direct. I would have rather heard it immediately vs. having more time to hope and pray for good news.

As soon as I woke up this morning, I thought about what this day meant. What this date exactly one year ago did to my family. I mentioned it to no one today. I sat silently thinking about my father’s reaction to the news. He simply put his head down. I can only explain it as the way someone might do when they have been defeated. I tried to be strong in the office. I tried to hold myself together, at least until I could get home and cry silently.

The oncologist explained to us that chemotherapy would allow my father more time. She never gave us false hope, we knew that he was terminal from that point on, but he decided that he wanted as much time as he could get to spend with his family. I still had not cried. I almost feel that I was frozen, like I was in shock.

She led us to the desk where there was a very friendly nurse who would schedule dad’s first chemotherapy appointment. As we stood there waiting for her to make the arrangements, I broke down. I could not hold it in any longer. I was going to lose my dad and the ocean of tears began running down my face until I found myself struggling to gain control.

Today, my daughter and I were in the car. She looked at her phone, and all I can gather is she had a memory come up from one of her social media accounts. She said to me:

Mom, 3 years ago today we were in Florida with grandpa playing miniature golf.

I said:

Honey, 1 year ago today grandpa received the news of his cancer.

It’s almost surreal to me that on this very same day 3 years ago, my daughter and I were in Florida enjoying time with my dad. Playing miniature golf and going to Wahlburgers for lunch.

She asked me, “do you think it means something”?

I said to her that anymore I think every little detail means something. I think that the praying mantis that rested on the outside of my kitchen window for an entire day the day that we sold my father’s house meant something. I think that the penny I found underneath the recliner where my dad spent most of his final days meant something. I think that the white feather that landed on my windshield a few weeks ago when I was at a stoplight meant something. Everything means something to me, I just don’t know what that is. Maybe it’s me just trying to hold onto any shred of my father.

I don’t know. All I know is that I miss him more now than I ever thought possible. There is no such thing as preparing for a loved one’s death.

 

 

For those of you who may not be familiar with my blog posts, on October 24, 2018, not even 2 weeks after learning about my fathers lung cancer diagnosis, we lost my husbands grandmother Lorraine (Nana). Today, we lost her husband Mike (aka Leo, aka Papa). Mike was my husbands step-grandfather, but if you wanted to remove the “step”, it would be appropriate. Mike was a great grandfather to my husband for the majority of his life, and was a very big part of my children’s lives as well.

He owned and operated a body shop for many many years, and enjoyed his spare time at Lake Erie with Nana, and anyone else who was able to make the trip for the weekend. As a family, we spent many weekends (but not enough) at the lake where we enjoyed summer days on the boat while I tanned and my husband and children fished.

There is something to be said about a marriage that lasts 50+ years, and Mike and Lorraine spoke volumes about love and commitment. They laughed, they fought, and they loved. Papa, I am sad to lose you but I am happy that you and Nana are united once again. In less than 6 months, your love for Nana won, and you joined her in heaven to fish while Nana drank her Vodka on the rocks.

We will miss and love you both, and we are so happy that we were able to tell you good-bye last night. May you both rest in peace, and enjoy one another for eternity.