I'm just going to go ahead and say it... it's been a rough couple of weeks, friends. Two weeks ago today I just kept reliving over and over in my head that awful day a year ago when we got the news that my dad had two weeks to live. That was the worst day of my life. Worse than the day he died because, up until that day, we had hope that he could recover. We knew what a strong man he was and so, even in his weakened state, we were sure that it was still possible for him to beat the cancer. But that day his scans came back showing that his thyroid cancer had spread to his lungs and was very aggressive and his doctors let us know that there was nothing else that they could do. My mom told me the news in the waiting room and, at that moment, I was completely ripped open like I had been shot point blank with a cannon. I kicked the coffee table so hard I still have an indention on my shin from it but I'm surprised I didn't tear the whole waiting room apart -- I've never been so angry. He was too good a man for that to be how it was going to end for him.
Over the next two weeks I went to the hospital every day and spent as much time there as I could while still taking care of Wilder. I wasn't sleeping or eating enough and I was crying too much. After that shot to the stomach I felt like my guts were slowly leaking out of me -- I was completely drained physically and emotionally. I was a zombie, just going back and forth between the hospital and my mom's house every single day. I was exhausted from the weight of the thought that each goodbye I said to him might be the last. And it felt so strange to alternate between the despair that comes with seeing a loved one in their final days to the joy of spending time with a new life discovering the world more and more each day. I was being emptied out by the experience of watching my dad slowly succumb to the cancer but I also had to nourish and give the best I could to Wilder at the same time. It was a very awful and mixed up couple of weeks but, even though it was exhausting to be a mother to my son while letting go of my dad, I know that my duties to Wilder are what kept me from completely sinking to the bottom of an ocean of grief during that time.
As the summer heat gave way to a brisk fall air over those two weeks I began to accept what was inevitable. I went from angrily holding on to my dad to just wishing for his pain to end and for him to be at peace. I slowly let go and wished for him to let go too. And today, one year ago, he did. I remember my mom calling me early that morning while I was feeding Wilder breakfast and telling me she thought I needed to hurry to the hospital. My heart sunk. I dressed and got our stuff together as quickly as I could and put Wilder in the car in his pajamas. It took me about 45 minutes to get from the house to his hospital room but it was too late. My mom met me in the doorway and told me he was gone and I just fell to my knees. Such a weird, overwhelming mixture of grief and relief came over me.
I miss my dad every day. I still have the last voicemail he left me and listen to it when I need to hear his voice. I miss him a little more today than usual but mostly I'm trying to remember today as the day he was set free from his ravaged earthly body. And that makes me thankful. I know he's looking down on us so I want him to see me smiling when I remember him, playing with his grandson whom he loved so much, and spending time with my family telling stories about him and having a meal at one of his favorite restaurants. I don't want to succumb to the immense grief I feel and I can't anyway because, just like it did last year at this time, Wilder's presence is buoying me up. He doesn't know the difference between today and any other day so he wants to be read to, fed, and played with and I'm happy to oblige him because I know that's what my dad would want me to do. Today's date, 10-4, will always be a reminder of that for me. A reminder that my dad is OK, we're going to be OK, and we should keep moving forward.
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