My dad is on my mind. It’s not really just a mind thing. Sometimes it’s my whole body, and I wake up, heart racing, thinking I’m by his side as he’s dying. That there’s nothing to do, that I hold him and tell him how much I love him because that’s the way we should all leave this world. When I’m in my everyday and remember that he’s gone, actually really think about it, I realize that I stop breathing. I’m actually holding all of my air, my chest puffed, and I have to remind myself to exhale, to breathe in again. Taking my breath away. It never really made sense before.
For some reason, his absence has been more difficult for me lately. A variety of reasons, probably. Their wedding anniversary, which would have put them at 44 years. Forty-four years. I cannot even comprehend sharing a literal space with someone for that long, let alone the world. Wedding gifts and baby’s bottles and oxygen tanks. Compassion and companionship. In the past few weeks, two people I know have lost parents. Awful. And I’m strangely jealous, because they both made it to their 60s before their parents died. Their 60s. The same decade of life in which my father died. I’m jealous that they had their parent for 25 more years than I did. I’m still angry.
It’s proven oddly soothing to read the blogs of people who have a lost a child, even a loss that occurred some time ago. They legitimize loss, in a way. It is in their every day, as it is in all of mine. At least from a distance, people react differently to them. When you lose a parent, there is something of a pick yourself up attitude, pat pat pat, things will be ok, just around the corner. Let’s get to getting. While reading the writing of parents, I recognized the ache, the same pain of loss. I don’t have a family of my own, and the nuclear foursome I was born into has always been my life. It felt good to be reminded that it isn’t just about arrangements and getting on with it. I’m a misfit for a variety of reasons, but not because I still grieve.
My sister and I will take some of my father’s ashes to Greece with us, a feat I’m sure will prove a comedy of errors, as I approach a TSA screener with a suspicious face and some dumb statement like, “It’s not gunpowder, it’s burned human remains.” We’ll take him to the Acropolis, because when he was there he was already sick and couldn’t walk all the way to the good stuff. And my sister and I will hug and sob while other tourists gawk and wonder just what our odd emotional connection to doric columns is. And we’ll later giggle when recounting the story to our mom, because he would have gotten a good giggle out of it too.
54 Comments
See, this post makes me feel really inappropriate for laughing at “It’s not gunpowder, it’s burned human remains.”
There are no rules for grieving– I think you’re doing great. I’m glad you’re finding comfort in unexpected places.
You *should* be laughing at that - I’M FUNNY, DAMMIT!!!!
Thanks for being part of my comfort, mysterygirl! . . . whoever you really are . . .
Although I am lucky enough to have both of my parents, there was a time when I thought I was going to lose my dad, and even though I didn’t, that thought still makes a lump grow in my throat. I’m only 31, my parents aren’t quite 60, it’s not time. And yet my mother-in-law died two years ago at age 59, and I don’t know if my husband will ever really “get over it” and I’m not sure why he should. And there’s no reason for you to, either.
There is a beach volleyball player at the olympics who brought some of her mother’s ashes. She had them in a prescription bottle. That is probably worth trying. Maybe won’t even get questioned about it. My heart is always with you when you post about your dad.
Peace
I don’t place much stock in prayers, but I am keeping a good thought for you.
i think it’s really sweet that you and your sister are bringing his ashes with you to greece. wishing that you continue to find comfort and peace.
Thank you, sweet people. TIC, seeing that player with the prescription bottle made me think about writing this post, actually.
I just tried to reach through my monitor to hug you and stroke your hair.
Yes, you are wicked funny. But you still just made me cry. Kind of like that funeral scene in Steel Magnolias where Sally Field is overacting about Julia Roberts not being able to walk a great distance and Olympia Dukakis offers up Shirley MacLaine as a cathartic punching bag. I couldn’t decide whether to laugh or cry during that scene, so I did both.
This was kind of like that for me.
I don’t think anyone is ever ready to lose a loved one…reading a story like yours makes me realize how important it is not to take our families, or the people who love us, for granted.
I am still angry and jealous of people whose parents make it past 64 (when I lost my pop). I cringe when people tell stories about their folks and how they annoy them. I want to scream or shake them and tell them to enjoy every waking minute they have with them. 4 years and I still wake up in the middle of the night and pick up the phone to call him. I get it.
I am sorry for your loss. My dad passed away quite a few years ago and it still makes my heart ache. The other day I realized one of my good friends is the age my dad was when he died…46. I always knew that was so young, but for some reason that just got to me. Cherish the memories of him.
I’d be afraid to lose the prescription bottle or one of my kids ingesting my loved one.
I lost my father in my late 20s when he was in his mid 50s. I’m nearly 40 and still mad, still missing him.
Before he died he requested that I take his remains to Monterey, rent a boat and drop them in the Pacific Ocean. I remember getting on a plane in Boston with a tote bag containing my box of his ashes. I got hung up at the X-ray machine and they almost didn’t let me continue but I had cemetery cremation papers and also hysterical tears. They did have a guard escort me to the plane though. You may want to have some paperwork to prove that those are your father’s ashes, just in case, if you aren’t going to try the prescription bottle method.
My parents are in their 50s, and all four of my grandparents are still living and in the 80s. 56 year anniversaries for both sets of grandparents this year, 30 for mom and dad.
I’m 27 and still have all of them with me. And while I can’t imagine how you feel losing a parent, if it’s any comfort to you (and it is to me), reading what you write and how you deal with your loss is preparing me to deal with these things. I don’t know, it sort of feels like I’m not going in there blind when it comes…
Baby, I can’t imagine the pain. Can. Not. Imagine. I am an only child and didn’t marry until late in life, AND I live two houses away. I just can’t imagine what I will do and how I will feel when that time comes for me. I am so so so so sorry you are hurting so much. I wish I could make it better, but I know there is nothing in this world anyone can do to make it better. Just know I am thinking about you.
When you lose someone close to you, you become a member of a club that is exclusive, yet is one that almost everyone ends up joining … Those who understand are the ones who know that they will never completely understand. Yes, I’m a member too — my girlfriend died 3 years ago. Regardless, thanks for sharing your space with us.
As an aside, I’m new to your site; found it while trying to hunt down the density by volume of Cheetos (don’t ask). Jesus Christ, you’re funny. Looking forward to exploring.
Kris, my dad found out he has cancer this week. And part of my argument as to WHY HE HAS TO HAVE THE SURGERY TO GET BETTER (even though it sucks, so he was reluctant to get it - the odds are high that it will work), much of that came from reading about your dad and because of knowing I will miss my dad as much as you do. I’m an only child like MereCat and not that it means you hurt less than her at all but this would absolutely fucking kill me. He’s only 62.
Peace be with you, you are obviously a loving and appreciative daughter of a great guy.
I’m so selfish that I kept my dad’s ashes, he resides next to my favorite sweater in my closet and comes out whenever I need to talk (I’m not kidding, I really do pull it out and talk to him…I don’t expect him to talk back but, it makes me feel good to talk “at” him) and on my first father’s day without him, I took him to Olive Garden because I didn’t know what to do with myself. I’m sure your dad will like Greece far more than my dad appreciates my fashion sense and/or gossip.
I’m still pissed at the fact that I lost my dad at 23, he was my best friend and it just sucks. Hard.
Your grief is so palpable, kris. I hurt for you. And I love the ashes in Greece idea. I hope that both the humor and the other emotions of that moment bring a little healing.
I lost my brother 20 years ago. There are nights I still wake up as if it was that first night 20 years ago, with same feeling of anguish, pain, and emptiness. With a place so void that it may never be filled, even with death.
I am sitting at my keyboard right now, tears rolling down both cheeks, reading your post, and missing my brother so much it aches. It still happens to me, and I’m guessing it always will.
It never goes away completely. You just learn how to live your life without them because you have to. Because that’s what they would want you to do. It doesn’t mean you miss them any less. Because you do. You really do.
“I will always cry because I miss him, but I will always laugh because I knew him”.
I miss you, Mike. Always.
Having plans to let go (at least for me) never work. The more I ‘plan’ on letting go…’today I will forget all about X’, the more I focus on it. I think taking your dad’s ashes with you to Greece is brilliant because it will help you to ‘get on with it’, while not forcing it, you know? It’s like completing a circle that was started the last time you were there w/your dad, but couldn’t be closed. What a great tribute to him.
And as for the TSA, just make sure those ashes are tucked safely in a plastic baggie, and really - what can they say? ;-)
That touched my heart. You’re a strong woman.
I always preferred the Ionic columns myself. And sports columns like Mitch Albom’s of course. Wuh?
Sorry you are missing your Pop. You can borrow mine for a weekend. Be prepared for lots and lots of stories. Seriously. Lots.
I’m still angry and often overcome with sadness and my dad has been gone 16 years. There’s no time frame for grief, my friend. And missing someone is part of loving someone, right?
Thinking of you.
I am at this moment trying to resolve some long-festering issues with my parents. My fear is that they will die before we get to the root of things. Or that we’ll do it, but our ability to communicate will be impaired by the hurt feelings they’ll have as a result. I don’t envy you the loss of your father, but I do hope for a similar straightforward love and admiration.
It is comforting to read these thing about other people’s loss because it reminds you it is ok to still grieve.
When we lose a loved one, people are so supportive in the beginning. They check in, drag you out for drinks and make sure you are ok. Then a few months pass and they forget; they ask how you are doing and just want to hear “I am doing great”. They don’t realize that even though 6 months has passed, or a year has passed, that every day is another day without them. It is their birthday or the anniversary of the trip you took together or some other milestone…and it is raw and you ache. Yet, you don’t want to burden them, so you suffer alone.
This is a long way of saying, I understand and I am thinking of you.
Krisser - Did you ever watch that show “Airline”? I just had a vision of you going mano-a-mano with some bitchy Air Greece desk agent about how you don’t have the appropriate forms and authorization. If there are airlines that will make you leave your puppy behind, there are probably airlines that will make you leave your gunpowder behind.
I got married on June 1, 2004, moved 3 states away from home (husband in the Army) 2 weeks later, and then on June 18, my mom committed suicide. She had many physical problems (stomach-eating ulcers, thyroid, breast cancer), but it was the mental ones that finally brought her down. I have a little boy that’s almost 2 and it pisses me off everyday that she left before she had a chance to know him.
On a funny note, be careful where you spread the ashes–we took my mom to Florida and spread her ashes in the ocean. On our first try, the wind blew all the ashes back in our faces–eyes, nose, mouth, EVERYWHERE. We couldn’t stop laughing. We all said she probably did it to us on purpose. In the middle of your deepest grief, maybe your Dad will find a way to make you smile.
Beautifully written, honestly shared.
Each one of your lovely comments is now added to the list of my favorite things. Except for t2ed’s, maybe. Asshat.
Big hug to you. This post is beautiful.
Wow. Funny I checked in with you tonight. I just had the 1 year anniversary of my Father’s passing last weekend. It was terrible, cathartic and wonderful, all at the same time. I still “forget” that he’s gone. Weird. I’ll drive by his street and think automatically that I should stop by and say hello, and then reality hits me like a spiked mace…to the heart. I’m lucky though, he was 86 years old. Sure, he wasn’t “him” all the way at the end, but I sure had him a lot longer than some folks have their Fathers. My thoughts and prayers are with you and I understand every single ounce of your anger, frustration, sadness and yes, even sad relief. It’s the worst kind of pain to watch someone you love so much…someone immortal in your eyes, in so much pain and suffering. I feel like I’m on my own now, and I don’t like it. Good thing I had such a good teacher. So did you.
Best to you, my cyberspace friend. (smile)
I wish I had something wise or comforting to offer, but I don’t. All I can say is this. My grandmother was my champion and she loved me unconditionally from the day I was born. When she died six years ago, I had a hole in my heart I didn’t think could be healed. I’m not sure I ever stopped grieving, so much as my grief was transformed. I stopped mourning her loss and started celebrating her memory. I am reminded of her every day in big and small ways, from how I write to who I am. It is the very least I can offer as her legacy. Thank you for sharing in the process of being human.
Yes, lord, please don’t get stopped by some TSA nitwit who wants to examine your carry-on bag. (I laughed at the gunpowder line, too. It WAS funny.)
At the Acropolis, stay downwind. I’ve been there and it can be windy. My sister and I scattered my mother’s ashes in Little Sarasota Bay in Florida, which is what she wanted. The wind blew up off the water just as we released them, and I got dust on my suit coat. Without thinking, I flicked off Mom with my finger tips. I felt odd for days.
Mourning takes time. Mourning takes forever, actually. The whole will always be there; in time it won’t hurt as much when you run your hand over it.
Love,
M
(Of course I meant the “hole.”)
(And upwind too. Need drink.)
I’ve known many a person who has gone through TSA with illegal substances stashed in smallish containers. I just sent an email asking where exactly they stored these things. I vaguely recall something about a film canister….
I’ll be getting back to you when I get the info (if he can remember to write or call, if you know what I’m saying ;).
My heart aches for you. I thought I might lose my dad about 6 years ago when he went into the hospital for heart issues. I had to face up to the fact that I wouldn’t even be able to get back in time to see him. While he’s still here, thankfully, I’m so, so far away. My husband lost his parents years ago, and it still affects him to this day, although it gets a little easier to breathe as time goes on.
I love you, girl, and you know my number if you need to talk. Anytime.
Sweet Oprah, I’m lucky to know you guys. Thanks, all. Truly.
Kris, THANK YOU.
Is it inappropriate to say “bon voyage” after reading touching memoire-posts? *hugs*
my dad died march 17, 2007. i’ve been thinking about him over-time lately, too. i wonder if there’s something in the air. or maybe just that it’s beach season, which makes me think of him lifting me over the breakers when i was a young’un. best wishes to you.
When my das got sick, he didn’t tell us how bad it was - well, maybe he tried to, in hidden ways. I remember he told me that ‘he wasn’t afraid’, but I interpreted this to mean that he wasn’t afraid of the illness, or the tablets he was taking. I think he was telling me that he wasn’t afraid of dying - but I guess I didn’t really want to know that then and didn’t believe that his illness was life-threatening. I saw him for Christmas 1999, he died in his sleep in June 2000, before I had the chance to see him again. I cried for months after his death. He worked for an airline all his life and loved anything to do with flying, so now he is in every plane that passes overhead, on every flight that I’m on and I’m sure that he’s looking after me.
reading your post was almost like looking at the mirror… i still have my parents, but i felt the same way you are feeling when my grandad past away..it was in 2004 and still i miss him…a part of me left when he died, but i ve learned to live this way…there is no other choice…
Reading this post made me cry. I lost my father many years ago when I was 19 and he was 58. We were super close. I can’t even think about, let alone talk about my father without getting tears in my eyes.
I am so sorry for your loss. Thanks for sharing an intimate part of you, with all of us.
It has been 12 years since I lost my mom, and I occasionally STILL have those “cant breathe” moments. Sometimes I forget, and pick up the phone to call her, and than I am reminded again. The best advice/comment said to me was “you have to think of it as losing a limb, you wont ever be the same, but you will learn to compensate and try and find your balance”
I hope you get your balance soon!
I heart you so, Jersey Girl.
My Dad died two years ago, when I was 28 and he was 60. It doesn’t matter how young or old you or your loved one are, how much time you did or didn’t have together — it hurts to lose someone and it doesn’t stop hurting, ever.
I still haven’t erased his number from my phone’s contacts, and I still have his ashes. My sister and I are afraid to scatter them because we don’t want to screw it up — nothing seems fitting, nothing seems good enough. And I think that secretly, neither of us is ready to let him go. I hold on to my hurt — I’m afraid to let go of that, too, because it might mean I care a little less, and that’s certainly not the case. Even after two years, I still want to pick up the phone and call him, hear his advice on this guy or that restaurant. I am a bartender, and I don’t work on Father’s Day anymore, and probably never will. (That’s an especially bad day for me becase my Dad actually died ON Father’s Day. What a joke.) Little things, like the way he signed his name on a letter, will set me off unexpectedly and I am paralyzed with emptiness and loss.
I saw an interview in which a man spoke about the loss of his son and described the grief as a weight that one carries around forever. It’s like a heavy object in your pocket, and you’re always aware of it, but you eventually become accustomed to carrying it with you wherever you go. Sometimes you feel weaker and you really feel the burden of the weight, but you always manage to readjust and keep on going. I think that was a really eloquent way to describe it. Here’s the link to the video: http://link.brightcove.com/services/link/bcpid1272266708/bclid1280500067/bctid1280493719
Even though it will never really be “okay,” I know from personal experience that in time it becomes easier to manage that weight. Hang in there.
My biggest regret was that I wasn’t successful in my quest to scatter a portion of my father’s ashes at Lambeau Field a few years ago when I went to Green Bay on business. I’m a multi-tasker, what can I say?
I had no idea until I got there that Lambeau Field was closed up tighter than Fort Knox because they were remodeling it. I didn’t think that scattering my father in the parking lot would be cool, so I took him back home with me. We scattered his ashes in his favorite stream in the Adirondacks. It was fiting, but it would have been great to scatter a bit of him at Lambeau.
awww, lady. I’m so sorry you’re feeling this way. I’m sure your dad will love it in Greece :) Thinking about you!
I lost my dad about four and a half months ago. Thought I had reached a point where I could be strong about it- I was even able to tell someone without getting upset. Then I found a father’s day card while cleaning out my drawer and, well. There was a lot of crying involved.
Thank you for reminding me that it’s good to grieve. That part about Greece sounds fantastic. I sincerely wish you and your family well.
I lost my dad nine years ago, when I was 26. He was 50. I have come to the conclusion you do not get over this. You just learn to live with it. The pain is not as immediate as time goes on. I think about him every day, but I try to avoid thinking about how different my life would be if he were still here.
I like very much the writings and pictures and explanations in your adress so I look forward to see your next writings. I congratulate you.
Fantastic post. You made me cry.
My mom suddenly died when I was 25. She used to call every Saturday to check up on me, and that Saturday I let the answering machine pick up. I thought to myself I’d call her the next day. Sunday she wasn’t feeling well, and my father went to church without her. He came home and found her dead. The news was broke by my hysterical father on the phone, the man I grew up with wondering if he had any feelings at all. He grew up in that era where men never cry, and I’d only seen him shed a couple of tears when our dog died, a long time ago, when he buried him in the back yard. This time he was hysterical, and I could barely understand him. A truly, horrible nightmare.
I’ve been trying to forgive myself for not picking up the phone that day. For 7 years now. One day, I’ll be able to do so. One day.
I also remember sitting at the funeral home, and my dad “checking” to make sure she was presentable enough for my two brothers and I to view her. I remember thinking that my mother was no longer here, and seeing her lifeless body would traumatize me forever. I stayed in the waiting room. I’m glad I did. I’ve had enough dreams of her since then, and every one is her full of life, smiling or crying, but alive every time. The way I want to remember her, always.
It will get easier. Not necessarily better, but easier to deal with. I still sometimes find myself waiting for the phone to ring on Saturdays. And every time it does, I’m disappointed by the caller. Because the person calling me is not my mom.