Today is the fifth anniversary of my father’s death.
Every year, this day comes—and every year I am surprised by its power. This morning was like any other weekday in our house: The Poo woke up and came for a cuddle, The Babyman threw his banana on the floor and laughed like a deranged monkey.
My husband wore a new tie and asked for my opinion. I made coffee and tried to drink it while it was hot, failing, of course.
And this morning marked five years since I sat in terror on a hard, brown sofa, waiting for a doctor I didn’t know to share my father’s fate with me, my husband and my mother.
We were alone, the three of us. My sister and her family were frantically throwing clothes in a suitcase, waiting for a private jet sent by my father’s boss to fetch them from Minnesota. My brother was weeping on a plane leaving from Boston.
We all waited for hope, but we knew it was not to be. Of the many mornings, afternoons and evenings spent in the emergency room during the last nine months of my father’s battle with colon cancer, this one was different.
When my mother called at 3:30 in the morning to tell us they were on their way to hospital by ambulance, I got up and took a shower. I felt like I needed to be prepared, to be dressed and clean for the ordeal ahead.
Something inside me knew he was going to die that day. Sometimes I think it was The Poo, tucked deep inside me, whispering to my heart.
At 3:30 p.m. today, it will have been five years since I saw my father alive. The last words he said to me, as he lay on a gurney with doctors rushing around him, was “I love you.”
A few weeks ago, I was in a rush to get out of the house. The sitter was late, I was on deadline and The Babyman was doing his best to shred what’s left of my sanity. When the girl finally arrived, I grabbed my bag and headed for the door.
At the threshold, I paused. I turned back and kissed my son full on the mouth, remembering that last sentence from my father.
I love you.
I want those to be my last words to those I love, even if I am just leaving the house to get the mail.
I love you, too, Daddy, and Jesus, I miss you so bad.
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i’m so sorry, amy.
I’m so sorry. My dad is 86 and starting to age quickly and I am so afraid of the day he dies. I love him so much.
A blogger friend of mine was sharing her story of how they have special dinners on the day someone near and dear had passed away. I think it’s a nice idea to celebrate the day they arrived in heaven rather then dwell on their death.
Take care and God bless.
much love to you today my friend. It is so hard. Thankfully 2 days before my dad went into a coma I stopped by his house at a really late hour and we talked for hours and enjoyed the cookies I brought over to him. 2 days later he was in the hopsital put on a vent to help with his massive lung infection. He never woke up. I miss him so much and other times when I realize that I haven’t been thinking of him I feel guilty for not.
much love xoxo
I’m so sorry. I know how much it hurts.
My father is aging rapidly as well, Debby. It is hard to watch and difficult to bear. He has been ill for several years now and the realization that he is not going to get better, this time, is very slow to sink in. I know he won’t be able to make the trip home for Christmas this year so I will be going to Florida in October. I dread the day …
I didn’t make it home in time. He only had pneumonia and of course the terminal lung disease that we knew would eventually kill him. But they couldn’t even figure out how he got it so I just kept thinking he would keep on going until it got “bad.” Bad never came. In the hospital for the pneumonia, I was on my way home to surprise him and cheer him up. I got a call about 30 minutes from the house to come straight to the hospital. It was too late for visiting hours and they were waiting for me in the hall. No one said it, but I knew. Waiting for me in the hall. They were cleaning him up from the CPR and shocks to the heart. My brother had just gone to the gift shop to pick up something for him. We all missed it, except my mom, who was alone with him. I got there in time to hold his warm hand. I said I love you a thousand times. I remembered back to the last phone call with him the night before, he said I love you before he got off the phone and it was burned in my brain.
Mrs.C I am sorry for the loss of your Dad and the sadness you feel today.
Honey, I’m so sorry. I just…hugs. A million hugs today.
My mom always said, I love you to me, when she left. No matter if it was for a minute or three days at my dad’s house. After an argument too. Always. I never got it until I have kids and now I always do it too. The three most important words in the English language, for sure, are I love you.
What perfect words to be able to remember — and to really know that they are true.
I’m sorry and sending a hug to you on this sad day.
It’s weird isn’t it – now we have a family, I sometimes think “what if something happened to one of us” – how would the other cope… what could we do to perhaps help if the unthinkable happened…
Sending love and hugs honey.
This post is a beautiful way to mark this day, and to remind the rest of us to treasure what we have. Even though the reality of you missing your dad won’t change, you and your dad were clearly gifts to one another, and your sharing of stories is a gift to your readers. Thanks for that, and a hug for you.
I am so sorry. The 5-year date of my father’s death is one week from today. I never thought our family could survive without our mom and dad, and yet here we are. But I think of them every day, and miss them so much.
So very sad, and yet so very beautifully expressed. Thinking of you today.
Big virtual (hugs) for you today. This is a beautiful tribute to your Dad & I can feel that you miss him so much. I’ll be thinking of you & your family today.
Much love to you and your family. Your father was a lucky man to have you as a daughter.
I hope you can carve out a little space today, some space of your own to curl up in and just…be.
Thinking of you.
I’m so sorry sweetie. Thinking kind thoughts to you tonight.
What a heartbreakingly beautiful post– and how lucky you were to be as close to your father as you were.
I’m so sorry, Mrs. C. I miss my dad too…
A hard day for your family. I think saying I love you before we leave is important too.
xoxoxo Thinking of you
I dread this.
June marked two years since my Mother’s death at only 51 years old. I know how hard these “anniversaries” can be. I did better this year trying to focus less on her death and more on her life – but it is these days that make that awful day so hard to forget. Take good care! I hope sharing your words help you heal. It sure does for me.
love you.
Ohhhhhh, girl. This is such a powerful post.
Love to you.
(Maggie shared your post out.)
I can relate to well to this. I lost my father at a young age (I was only 19). My heart goes out to you.
I’ve been a lurker for a long time. Felt like I needed to comment this time. My thoughts are with you. Thank you for sharing. I am now crying at work.
There are losses that will always be with us. I hope you are able to find some comfort from your memories and from time with your family.
I remember finding your blog on the second anniversary of my father’s death. I can’t even remember how, at this time, but some random google search led me to a very powerful post you had written about your father. That post helped me face and release the grief I was trying to ignore that morning. Thank you again for that.
I am so sorry, Mrs. C. That’s all. Just know I’m thinking of you.
Love & hugs to you.
My mom survived stage 3 colon cancer. And I know how lucky she is, we are, to still have her in our lives. And I’m going to call her this morning.
Hugs to you, sweetheart.
Sorry Amy…
I dread the first anniversary of my MIL’s death (in March). I dread Christmas Day this year – the first anniversary of taking her to the hospital because trying to eat Christmas dinner was so painful for her. It breaks my heart that I may dread Christmas Day for many, many years.
Yeah, I get this.
Thinking of you.
xoxoxoxoxox
So sorry about your father. That must be difficult. My best friend’s mother died of CF when she was 15 and she still has a difficult time each year especially on her mom’s birthday which just happens to be my husband’s birthday too (a happy day for me, a sad day for her).
Good for you to take the time to say I love you! I try to remember that we are never promised another minute let alone another day and try to always leave the ones I love with a hug or kiss and an I love you!
Hugs, just hugs. Because I remember too, what that day is like. And how it sneaks up on you.