Not too long ago, we bathed The Poo while chatting about all the people who love her.
We listed off all her grandparents, and then spent time explaining how we, her parents, were also children.
“Your grandma and grandpa are my mommy and daddy,” Mr. Chicken told her, as he sluiced shampoo from her hair using a small container of water. “And meema is Mommy’s mommy.”
Suddenly, without warning, The Poo realized a new truth about our extended family.
“Mommy!” she exclaimed, the gears in her head grinding away. “You don’t have a daddy!”
I winced, her words hitting me as hard as any blow. My father’s been on my mind of late.
This is, you see, my season of loss.
*****
Even as we welcome a new soul to our household, my mind wanders – dreadfully – to this date on the calendar. Four years ago today, at 3:30 in the afternoon, my father drew his last breath.
Each year I think the hours will come and go like any other, just a pair of numbers and nothing more. I believe I will keep house and tend children, spending my time as I would on an ordinary day.
But this day, this terrible day, will never be ordinary again.
The immediacy of my grief has faded; that much is true. No longer do I wake in the heart of the night, veins pounding with dreams the color of blood. No longer do I wake each Aug. 26 precisely at 4 a.m., the time my telephone rang with the news that an ambulance was ferrying my father to the emergency room.
But when August begins to wane, a bruise rises to the surface, tender and easily irritated. The warm weather and the slant of the sun prompt recollections I’d rather forget – walking my parents’ dog in the late afternoon the week before my dad died, while they were away at The Mayo Clinic; the hope I felt when the doctors reported that the cancer was dead; the terrible tremor in my dad’s voice the last time I spoke to him on the phone.
I called to tell my mother I wanted to come out to Minnesota. I was on vacation, and something inside urged me to get on a plane and be with them.
With him.
My mother insisted I stay home. I was five months pregnant and enjoying my first travel-free break from work in many months. I was sleeping late and spending time with my husband.
But that urge. It was there.
As I debated purchasing a plane ticket, my dad called me from his hospital bed and weakly assured me he was fine.
I knew he wasn’t, in my heart of hearts. But I turned a deaf ear to that voice inside my heart and stayed home.
***
I told The Poo that yes, I did have a daddy.
“My daddy lives in heaven,” I told her. “We can’t see him anymore, but he is our special angel. He watches over us, and he was with you before you came out of mommy’s belly.”
I tell her this because my faith dictates it be so; I tell her this because my heart needs to believe it to be so.
My daughter looked up at me with my father’s eyes. She blinked once, and I watched her thinking about what I said.
“Why?” she asked.
Why. A question I ask myself in the middle of the night. Why did my 54-year-old father ignore the warning signs of colon cancer for years? Why did he refuse a colonoscopy that could have prevented his death? Why did the doctors at the prestigious New York City cancer center fail to spot a tumor on his pancreas despite near-monthly PET scans?
Where did I find the strength to watch him die? Why did I have to?
Why.
“He died, baby,” I said. “He was very sick, and he died.”
Her face crumpled and I regretted my honesty. But what else was there to say?
So I swallowed hard and smiled. I told her that it was OK, that I was OK. I told her I had lots of funny stories to tell her about my daddy, her grandfather. That he was a funny man with a big belly who loved chocolate, just like her.
I told her she has his eyes.
***
Sometimes she brings it up.
“You’re daddy isn’t dead, mommy!” she cries.
It upsets her. It makes her think something will happen to me. Or to her own father. It makes her dwell on death and it is inside her brain like a worm, a worm I set loose with my words. With my story.
Just two days ago my daughter dissolved into tears and insisted, out of the blue, that my father was not dead. I tried to reassure her, but all I could do was hold her until her sobs dissipated.
I buried my face in her hair, and felt her strong heart against my chest.
How I wish I could have spared her this terrible, premature knowledge of loss. How I wish my own pain didn’t show in my face.
Because I know it still does, on this day, the final day of the dying season.
***
I miss you, daddy, every single day.
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It doesn’t get easier, does it? I am so sorry for your loss. Thank you for this post.
Kids can be such a bittersweet reminder, can’t they? I was terrified when I had to explain to my barely two year old daughter that her daddy’s brother had died of cancer. I was terrified she wouldn’t be able to understand the distinction between simple illness and cancer. It was hard. But she continues to help ease the pain, even when she reopens wounds by bringing up the subject frequently. Because talking about it is good (for us, anyway) and seeing her sympathy and her lack of fear helps us not to be afraid.
I’m so sorry.
While it is obviously NO comparison, I’ve gone through a similar thing with my son when we lost our dog of 14 years – every time he would ask about when he was coming home it would shoot that oh so familiar pain right through me. It’s gotten a lot better, and we can talk about him now with laughter instead of tears, but it’s hard.
(Seriously, I know that is really nothing compared to losing your dad, but it was my son’s first real experience with death…)
hugs
I’m so sorry.
I have yet to face this challenge when it comes to the Little Imp’s older brother, the one she’ll never know. She sees his picture and knows his name and knows he isn’t here, but it’s too soon yet for her to understand. She knows the mention of his name sometimes makes me smile, or, alternatively makes me weepy, especially this time of year when the anniversary of his death is still fresh.
Her smile though…is a perfect a reminder of Joshua, just as the Poo’s eyes are of your father.
Thanks for sharing this.
My father died when I was 21 years old…he never saw me graduate from college, walked me down the aisle at my wedding or met his grandchildren. Thirty four years later I understand your pain and have been there. You will never forget but someday it will not hurt quite as much as it does now. I am sorry for your loss.
I’m so sorry for your loss and for the Poo’s loss.
It’s hard to explain to children when we don’t understand it ourselves.
Thinking of you tenderly on this day…
My dad died almost 4 years ago right before Halloween, and having to explain that to my kids is so painful when I’m still trying to get through it myself. No amount of happy memories can assuage the sorrow I feel at the end of October. Halloween does bring one happy memory of my dad greeting all trick or treaters with the words “Ho ho ho!”. Every year. At least one smile in that time of sadness.
I’m sorry for your loss, and for the sadness of the Poo.
You know I know where you are right now in terms of your loss. Your August is my May.
And it sucks so hard to have to relate this to our children, doesn’t it? I dread the day when I finally have to tell my kids how my dad died; when “his body stopped working” is no longer enough.
Sending you comfort and strength and hugs.
How this post has hit my heart. It will be 4 years this Jan 2nd when my dad passed away. He went into the hospital on 12-24 and never came out. This past year I was so caught up in stuff that I nearly forgot and my heart was even heavier for it. Lots of love coming your way on this day.
Wishing you lots of strength and peace today.
extra hugs to you today friend.
Some of the sweetest tear-jerking conversations I’ve had with Princess are when she brings up her Grandpa as we snuggle in bed at night. It is so hard to remember my daddy and try to explain what it means that he is dead without crying or scaring her. But we do it and his memory lives on.
I miss my daddy everyday, too.
Your daddy may not be with us, but he lives on in your words that you share with hundreds of people every day.
Hugs to you.
Hugs and a listening ear.
xo,
J
Hard conversations, when the wound is still fresh.
These seasons undo us.
ox
I told myself that we should celebrate my dad’s birthday instead of the day he died. But I don’t have many strong memories of his birthdays. I have strong memories of the season of loss, as you so perfectly put it. And I’ve resigned myself to that. Those months were hard. The months following it were hard. It really is a season, isn’t it.
I wish I had comforting words, but I don’t. I know exactly how you feel, though. Exactly.
Thank you for sharing =)
Why, indeed. I don’t understand even though I have 44 years on your girl. Hugs.
thinking of you today, friend.
Thinking of you — every day, lady.
(((you)))
Been thinking of you today too. Cameron brings up my father at the most random times, one night in bed he looked at me and said “I miss your daddy, I want to talk to him”. Words that broke my heart because dammit, I miss him and want to talk to him too. It’s not fair my dad never got to see his grandchildren. 8 years later and it can still pierce my insides. Your sweet girl will know her grandfather through you. Sending much love your way my friend. Jen
I am new to you and your blog, but weeping nonetheless. I can’t even imagine this loss. I’m glad that you have an outlet for your grief, and a support group to help you endure it. You write about it beautifully and I do believe your father is an angel in your life now.
And isn’t it bitter sweet that you get to keep his eyes?
This is a beautiful post, Mrs. C., one that, as you know, I can relate to.
I’m honest with my kids too, about my mum, even though it hurts and it stings and it sucks to see their faces twist and turn in contemplation. But I mean, really, what else can I say to them?
I know how hard that conversation can be, and I am so sorry for your loss, even these four years later.
I am also new to your blog. For me it’s August, too, though it’s been 23 years now. My kids never knew my mother and yet, we’ve had to have those conversations already. They knew my grandparents and I lost both of them in the last 2 years. The pain will never go away, but I can tell you that it does diminish with time. This year, 23 years after her death, was the first year, really the first, that I could reflect and remember her and feel at peace. It has taken that long.
I am so sorry for your loss.
My heart breaks for you. So sorry for your loss.
*blub*
I’m so very sorry.
Aw. My kids have been to 3 funerals in the past 18 months – more funerals than weddings so far in their little lives. Each time, I get better at explaining – which is to say, I say something that makes ME feel better. Last week, at my husband’s great aunt’s funeral, it was this: that’s just Aunt Nora’s body, Frannie. Sometimes when bodies get old or broken, they stop working. But their souls never stop working. Their souls leave their bodies and keep on going, all around us, watching over us, very close by, even though we can’t see them. Souls never die. Kinda like your dad’s.
PS. I know you’re busy but I left you something today (a prize!) at my place if you have time to stop by.
I don’t like for people to tell me “I know how you feel” when they see and/or talk to their own parents daily…both of them. But, I don’t have that luxury. It was 20 years ago last Friday that my father died. I can tell you that the pain does get easier although I didn’t believe it when people were telling me that. But, I think your relationship with your father, the difficulties with grieving and the way you put it in writing is one of the reasons I enjoy your reading so much.
Here’s my post from last Friday about my dad if you are interested and think you can stand to read it. As I said, it does get easier and as I go back and read my posts from years pasts on August 22nd, I can see how I am more and more able to see how my writing changes from a terrible grieving writing to one who can enjoy the memories of her father.
Here’s the link to last Friday if you want http://www.momecentric.com/?p=441
2007 version believe it or not, there is not one, we were over our heads with the daycare and I didn’t post much at all during that time and I didn’t post about my dad at all. I remembered, oh yes, but when I say it does get easier, think about it, 19 years later and that was the first time I had actually not stopped my life on August 22nd to write a post about my father. Not out of disrespect but because it does get easier.
2006 version http://acracknlife.squarespace.com/journal/2006/8/22/18-years-ago-today.html
What a beautiful post.
My heart goes out to you during these moments. I know they can come as easily as breathing and go as quickly as a pregnant woman’s mind after having a kid. My father passed away 7yrs ago November 6th. He was 53 and there are so many times now that I’m a mommy of a son and daughter on the way and I still cry, still have talks in my mind with him, still have his e-mail address in my hotmail account, and still….well, there are a lot of stills but the fact is your daughter is so right: he’s not dead. I think of it like this: physically my dad isn’t here with me but in my heart, mind, and soul he’s very much alive. As long as he’s there for you then your dad is alive too and will always be.