In eleven days, it will be the six-month anniversary of Dad’s death.
I don’t necessarily miss him, because except for the last four months of his life, and for sixteen months in 2009 and 2010, I hadn’t been in his physical presence on a daily basis anyway. And many of the memories from the last four months of his life were fairly painful. But mostly I don’t necessarily miss him because I don’t necessarily feel that he’s completely gone.
Now saying that last sentence may make you think that I’m a bit gone. So let me explain. I don’t feel like he’s a ghost who’s hanging around. But he kind of feels like a human version of God – someone I can talk to at any time and know that he’ll hear. I know he’s around, just not in physical form.
Several times a day, or sometimes now maybe every other day, I’ll think of Dad and I’ll simply say, “Hi Dad. I love you.” Sometimes I’ll say “I love you” one or two more times. That’s it. I don’t feel the need to say much more. My love for him is as strong as ever, and I’m sure the reverse is true as well. I just somehow need him to know that I haven’t forgotten him and that I love him.
Some grieving people seem to feel the need to go to the cemetery where their loved one’s physical body lies in order to feel close to them. That isn’t true for me at all. I know he’s wherever my heart is. Or the heart of my mother, or my sisters and brothers, or his grandchildren. Whenever we think of him, he lives. It’s like that sentence on the altar of my childhood church “Do ye this in remembrance of me.” All I have to do is think of him, remember him, love him, and he feels somehow present.
Losing a parent is, I’m sure, vastly different from losing a spouse or a young child. With a spouse, you’ve had years and years of intimate physical contact. The missing of that physical presence must be almost unbearable. And with a child, oh especially for mothers who have carried that body within their womb and then nursed it and raised it for years and years…. I cannot imagine that pain, I truly cannot. But with a parent, as sad as it may be, there is often a natural progression. If one doesn’t fight that natural progression of life, illness, decline, death, there can be an element of peace about the process.
I know I sure am grateful that Dad’s spirit doesn’t have to be confined to a body which was confined to a bed or geri chair. And I’m glad he’s no longer saddled with a mind which had become increasingly confused and incapable. There is great freedom for Dad now. He is no longer in the physical presence of those he loves, but he can be by our side at a moment’s notice. And for that I am very grateful.
Two days ago I thought of Dad when I was climbing a large hill — The Stations of the Cross shrine in San Luis, CO. I was looking at the powerful sculptures depicting the last days of Jesus’ journey on Earth. It was moving to me because I think I was alive then. I think I knew Jesus in that lifetime. And the thought came to me, Was Dad there, too? Did I know Dad then, too? And a wind picked up and blew around me. It was the only wind I had felt all day.
So there you have it. The presence of those we love can be felt in multitudinous ways.
So Dad, this is for you. Thank you, as always, for being such an amazing father to me and to all my siblings. Thank you for being a good husband to Mom. Thank you for being a good man. You surely made this world a better and happier place.
I love you.
(And now the tears flow. And it’s all good.)
cindygreb 