My dad died two weeks ago today.
I've been thinking about him, about life and death, about grief.
My dad was 79 years old. He was old, but not that old. Of the people I know in advanced age, I’d have picked him as one of the healthiest. He was active and ready to do just about whatever needed doing. He rode his bike regularly. He loved gardening. He liked having guests over and loved traveling. He loved his family most of all, especially his grandkids.
The last thing he asked me to do was to bring my three year old daughter Juniper over to visit. He was dropping off my boys Bruce and Tommy after getting them birthday presents. I casually said bye to him as he walked out my front door. I don’t think I said “I love you,” can’t remember. I know I didn’t hug him. That was the last time I saw him alive.
I wasn’t ready for the phone call that said he was gone.
I wasn’t ready to spend time with his lifeless body.
I wasn’t ready to have the casket closed.
I wasn’t ready to burry him.
But nobody asks if you’re ready. For that matter, I know he wasn’t “ready” to die. He certainly wasn’t planning on dying that night. He had notes on his bedside tracking his daily blood pressure. He was dieting and exercising. He’d just given a lesson at church about taking care of your body.
But nobody asks if you’re ready.
I’m not somebody who has grieved a great deal in my life. My last grandparent died when I was 18. That was a long time ago. Since then I’ve only grieved lost relationships, but losing a girlfriend (because she broke up with you) is a lot different than losing a parent because they died. We can and do move on from lost relationships. But I’m not going to have another dad.
In one sense, we all know and understand what death is. The body simply stops working. Wears out. Breaks. Toddlers are familiar with the concept, and every thinking person knows that eventually, we all will die.
But I think there’s a very real part of our brain that doesn’t, that can’t, comprehend death.
My parents have been there for me my whole life, forty plus years. And while I lead a pretty independent life now, I always knew they’d be there for me if needed. But now one half of that duo is gone.
It’s the ultimate problem with no apparent solution. The irrational impulse I had in the days following his death was that this injustice needed to be addressed. My family has been short-changed. Where can I submit a complaint? Is there an appeals process? I’m sorry, somebody up there must have made a clerical error. How can I escalate our case?
Of course there’s nothing. You can do nothing to solve this problem.
I struggle to even know what to compare it to. It’s like if somebody told you one day that the sky was gone. It doesn’t make sense. You might laugh at them. In addition to being nonsense, it’s also impossible. The sky can’t be gone. The sky has and always will be there.
But then you go outside and look up… and somehow, beyond any understanding, the sky is indeed gone. And you know it won’t be coming back.
That protective covering that you hardly thought about, and certainly didn’t fully appreciate, is gone.
I don’t think one can comprehend the experience until it happens to them. I’ve noticed in the people who reach out with words of comfort, I can usually tell who among them has lost a parent themselves. Their words of consolation come from personal experience, and you can tell.
“Sadness” is too simple a description. It’s soul wrenching. It’s heart shattering. I said to my friend Daren that I didn’t know when I would feel “normal” again. He said his mom died 12 years ago, and he’s never gone back to “normal”. You don’t really heal from this, because it’s very much a part of you that dies.
Our family, especially our parents, make us. There’s the obvious genetic component (I often look and sound and act just like my dad), but there’s also the formative years when parents shape you. Their lessons, examples, values — all distilled into your very being. You couldn’t separate yourself from that history if you tried. They’re more than part of you, they made you. And then one day the author of you… is gone.
My kids are too young to understand any of this. They’re incapable of being sensitive. They ask me every day, “Dad, are you sad? Do you still miss your dad?”
Yes, kids. Like I said yesterday, I still miss my dad. And I’ll keep missing my dad for the rest of my life.
I don’t know what else to say. There’s too much to say. So I’ll end here.