Dear Father: Two Lessons From You on Your Birthday

Well, here we are, Father. Another birthday and you’re not here. Again. Another year without you in our lives. Another year of wondering what the heck happened and wondering where you are. Another year of…just missing you.

You would have been 65 today. How on earth did that happen? I often wonder what you would have been like now. The same? More grey hair? A little hunched over?

While you probably would have looked older, I highly doubt your soul would have aged one bit. Some people have an old soul. Not you. You were a young soul. You had this refreshing (sometimes bordering on annoying…LOL) sense of optimism about life. About everything, really. The world was your playground and you intended to enjoy every minute.

I really miss that about you. I know I say this a lot, but I don’t want to forget you, and I’m so worried that I will. The longer time goes on, the farther away from you I feel. That gap is getting too wide and sometimes it feels like you keep disappearing more and more.

But I’ve been thinking about ways to keep you with me and I got to thinking about a few of the life lessons you taught me. In fact, there were two phrases you were VERY fond of saying while I was growing up. And even though I may have rolled my eyes at them back then, they’re coming to mean more to me the older I get.

The two I remember the most…

“Measure twice, cut once”: I’m assuming your inner engineer/gadget guru lived by this notion. You were pretty methodical. I used to love to watch you work in your shop because I could practically see the wheels turning in your head. You liked to think things through and make plans and draw schematics. You needed to be absolutely sure of what you were doing.

“Never leave a stone unturned”: This was your favorite phrase to use when I’d come to you in a panic over missplacing my diary yet again. It was sort of desperation that is typical of teenage girls, but you never seemed annoyed or bothered by my pleas for help. Instead, you’d use your methodical powers to help me comb every nook and cranny of the house. I’d get impatient, but you didn’t let me give up. Under the bed. Behind the couch. Tucked in kitchen drawers. We looked everywhere and always found it. I was ecstatic, until a couple weeks later when I’d inevitably lose it again. But you never minded repeating the process again.

Now, I have to wonder: Was that your plan all along? Did you know that these lessons would mean a great deal to me later in life? Sneaky.

Happy birthday, Father. I love you and miss you every single day! xoxo

On My Father’s 64th Birthday

When I was young, I never really thought much about my parents’ birthdays beyond getting them a special gift and celebrating with their favorite cake. The day came and went, only to be repeated 364 days later.

Age, ironically, never really factored into anything. Weird, I know: A day where we’re essentially marking the passage of time and age is the last thing on my mind.

But this year? I was drifting off to sleep last night and thinking about my father’s birthday. He would have turned 64 today. And, well, I sort of found myself at a loss. What could I say that hasn’t already been said or analyzed or picked apart over the years? What new revelations could I possibly come to…realize?

The more I thought about it, though, the more I realized what a seminal birthday this would have been for him.

64.

Thanks to a little ditty by the Beatles, my father probably would have used today to take stock of his life and pontificate about his future (he was actually a big fan of pontificating…), just as John, Paul, George and Ringo did almost 50 years ago.

I know, this is probably such a trivial thing. From a psychological perspective, maybe I’m subconsciously focusing on a pop song to avoid thinking about the harder stuff, the bigger issues, the noticeable absence. But I do think of it. I do think about that classic song and how we’ll never get our “When I’m Sixty Fours…” We never got to see my father reach this age. We never got to see him get older and lose his hair. We never got to see him “mending a fuse…when your lights have gone.” We never got to see any of that. And we never will.

See, as much as I celebrate his birthday this year, as much as I’m so very thankful for all the happy years we had together, I mourn all that time we’ll never have. I mourn all those memories we’ll never get a chance to make. Time is tricky like that, I suppose. It’s something you can really only see in its absence.

My mom posted the above photo on Facebook this morning, saying: “Happy birthday, dear Brian. He would have been 64 today, and you can be sure he would have been whistling that Beatles song all day long. Ringo was his favorite, after all!“

Oh, how true. I can’t whistle, but maybe humming the tune a few times would be good for me. Happy Birthday, Father — I wonder where you’d be at age 64. I hope you know that I think of you every single day… xoxo

P.S. Happy Birthday, Father: 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012, 2013 and 2014. And more on my father’s suicide.

Happy Birthday, Father!

Well, Father, here we are. Another year. How can that even be? You would have turned 63 today, and honestly, there are so many questions running through my head: Who would you have been today? What would you have looked like? Would you still like the same things? Would you still laugh at the same things? Would you still tell the same old corny jokes? Would you still call me and Janelle “rosebud”?

I suppose it’s all these questions that have got me so confused. Because, really, sometimes it’s like you’re right here with us — almost as if I can feel you. And then other times, it’s like you were never even here at all. I hate this times because they’re the ones that hurt the most.

But I hope you know how much I’m thinking about you today. We all are. You are still so loved, even in those dark times when we feel like you’re a million miles away. You’re with us. And we’re with you. Forever. Always… xoxo

My Father’s Suicide: 3 things I’d tell him on Father’s Day

My father loved Father’s Day. Maybe that’s because he loved being a father so much. I always got the feeling that, just like my mother, he felt parenting was his most important and worthwhile job in life. He took it very seriously, whether he was helping me pass high school chemistry (which I did!) or trying to solve the murder in a rousing game of Clue (which he usually did!).

So for years after he died — and still occasionally — I felt conned in a way. Here’s how the internal conversation went down in my head…

“Of course father loved you. He loved you more than anything…”

“If he took being a father so seriously, then why isn’t he here?”

“His suicide does not take away from the fact that his family was the most important thing in his life.”

“Oh, really?? Then why do I feel so cast aside?”

My thoughts would usually swirl around in this sort of continuous loop, and even though I’d eventually get tired of asking the same questions over and over, I still felt compelled to ask them — as if not asking them would somehow make his death all too real.

But it is real, and this year, I’ve been thinking about all the things I wish I could tell him on Father’s Day. You know, like in those futuristic movies where the world is about to explode and you have exactly 45 seconds to tell your loved one everything you’ve ever wanted to tell them. Well, what if I could see my father again for just 45 seconds? Here are the three things I’d try to get off my chest…

Dear Father: Most of my anger has been replaced with missing you
Yes, I do still have anger toward you, and I don’t think anyone would begrudge me that. Maybe even you knew this anger would find me; I hope that’s one of the biggest things you regret. But now, some 11 years later, I miss you. This summer is making me so nostalgic for my childhood, for all those innocent days when nothing and everything mattered. I miss you, and I hope you know that, wherever you are.

Dear Father: I’ve managed to carve out a life for myself and I’m proud of it
I sometimes catch myself saying, “I’m not like…” And for some reason, I sometimes almost believe what I’m saying. Until I finally stop myself because looking back, I have come a long way, and, as anyone who’s lost someone knows, that’s no small feat. I’m proud of who I am. I’m proud of where I am in my life. It’s a life I hope you would be proud of too. You’ve had a hand in helping me get this far, whether you’re here or not.

Dear Father: I may not always admit it, but I do think about you every day
That’s totally normal, isn’t it? I mean, I’m not debilitated by grief, but I have moments during the day when you do cross my mind. Like when I’m eating my yogurt at lunch and remember how you’d always have to scrape every last bit out of the carton — yes, that was a bit annoying, if I’m being honest. Like the times I hear The Beach Boys and remember how you’d blast their tunes every weekend cleaning the bathroom. Like how you’d get that little happy glint in your eye whenever we’d come and visit you in “your shop” at work during the summer.

Would 45 seconds be long enough to tell my father all this? I’m not sure, but I’d sure like to try. And, I wonder what he’d like to tell me. What an interesting meeting that would be… xoxo

P.S. 3 things I’ve learned about bonding and 5 question I’d ask my father.

[Photos via We Heart It]

My Father’s Suicide: 11 years later…

Dear Father:

What is there to say about today? Where do I even begin? How on Earth do I even find the words? Eleven years. I can no longer say that you died less than 10 years ago; we’ve crossed that point where you’ve now been gone for more than a decade. What? That fact alone just boggles my mind. Honestly, it might as well just be a lifetime ago because that’s what it feels like, anyway.

As I was falling asleep a few nights ago, I was trying to think of something different to write this year — some sort of sentiment that would mean more than the words I wrote in 2009, 2010, 2011, 2012 and 2013. Some sort of “magic words” that would bring a new sense of peace and answers. You’d think that after 11 years, I’d just stop questioning, stop searching, stop trying to make everything OK and just accept that my life will forever be different. But for some reason, I resist this mindset at every single turn. And by resist, I’m talking stoically and stubbornly here. It’s almost as if I’m firmly planting my feet on the ground, refusing to move even an inch.

Why? Is it that I’m worried about forgetting you? Because if I’m being honest, I worry about that more than I’d ever admit out loud. I afraid I’m forgetting you, especially those little things I loved so much. Your annoying little laugh. The meticulous way you’d put your shoes on in the morning. How animated you’d get when you’d tell a story, which was…all…the…time. I loved those moments. I wish I could somehow keep those moments playing like movies in my head. As the years go on, I feel like you’re farther and farther away. I’m scared that someday, it will be like you were never even here. A life has to mean something, doesn’t it? And yours meant the world to so many people.

And then last week, I was listening to Say Something, and this lyric pierced my heart like a knife: “I’m sorry I couldn’t get to you.” I suppose when I really think about it, Father, I’m so sorry I couldn’t get to you. I’m sorry I couldn’t do more. I’m sorry I didn’t know just how much you were hurting. I’m sorry I couldn’t save you. I’m sorry I didn’t get up earlier that morning. You know I would have moved mountains if only I had known. I hope you know, wherever you are, just how much I love you, Father. The first two decades of my life were magical because of you. Thank you for that. I’ll carry those memories with me as I make my way on life’s journey. Something tells me that’s what you would have wanted… xoxo