Showing posts tagged dad

Grief

It really does come in waves. I miss my dad like crazy today. Saturday morning I woke up from a dream about him. It was so funny that I reached for my phone to call my mom and tell her all about it. Dad was always hard to reach by phone. He didn’t like it to be on ring but couldn’t hear it or feel it when it vibrated. I figured I’d tell mom about the dream and then have her pass the phone to dad. Then it hit me…

Sometimes it feels a little like waking up in a hotel room in the middle of the night. You reach to turn on the lamp and can’t find it. Something’s strange. Things are out of place. The bed doesn’t feel quite right and the lighting is different than normal. Then it hits you. You’re not at home. Relief sets in and washes the fear away.

Dad’s always been around. Never in my wildest dreams did I expect to bury him at 28 years old. I was supposed to be 50 or 60 when he died. My new reality is a lot like that moment in the hotel room in the middle of the night. Things aren’t right. They aren’t how they’re supposed to be. I wanna be at home and in my own bed. I want my daddy back.

I want him to be there for my mom so she doesn’t have to be lonely. I want someone to call when I don’t understand why my boyfriend’s being a turd. I want someone to make me laugh like he did and look at me with the same twinkle he always had in his eyes when he looked at me.

Life is hard.

The fourth stage of grief: Depression

Last Wednesday night I had a dream about dad. I don’t think I really knew he was gone until I had that dream. Ever since, I’ve been fighting depression. The intellectual side of me says, “Hey. This is normal; healthy even. Embrace it. Depression is a step that must be taken.” The emotional side of me wants to go home, draw the blinds, and cry. And that’s exactly what I did this past Monday.

Don’t worry.

I don’t plan to make a habit of it. I just needed a day. One day to be alone and grieve. One day to be sad without putting on a fake smile. I hadn’t taken a day to myself since he died and I needed it. Grief is a pretty crazy thing. In my last post, I happily recounted all the wonderful things my daddy used to do for me. I said I was blessed. Happy. This week I’m fighting the urge to pound my fists and throw myself on the floor like a spoiled toddler trying to get her way.  If it would help, believe me… I’d be on the dirty floor in an instant. I want my daddy back. I’m not sure how to live without him. And with as much as I ache, I imagine my mom’s ache is deeper and more painful than mine.  I don’t live with my mom. I have a home and a life of my own and a great guy who’s been extremely supportive for the last several weeks. Dad was mom’s best friend, supporter, lover, partner, and confidant. She’s pretty amazing to keep it together so well. I just hope that she cries sometimes. She needs to grieve.

Her doctor tried to put her on anti-depressants. She replied, “My husband just died. I have a right to be sad. I need to grieve. I don’t want to be numb through it all. If I get 6 months down the road and realize I can’t go on, we can talk about medication but I need to do this on my own for awhile.” I’m so proud of her.

Being a Christian, the people around me have said, “We wouldn’t wish him back. We know he’s happier where he is now than he’s ever been before.” Baloney. I’d wish him back in a heartbeat. Yeah. I’m fine with being that selfish. Perfectly fine with it. Who am I supposed to talk to when my boyfriend’s being a jerk? Who do I ask why the heck my car won’t start? Who’s going to give my boyfriend permission to propose or walk me down the aisle someday?

The really awful thing is that none of those questions really matter. My dad’s gone. I can ask “who…” all day long and it won’t make my void any less painful. I just have to figure out a way to go on without him.

Death pisses me off. When I was a kid I’d always say, “I don’t want Jesus to come back and call us all up to heaven yet. I want to graduate from high school first, go to college, get married, have sex, have a family, and do great things.” Now I just don’t care. I’d forfeit all those things without another thought if it meant being in the presence of Jesus and all my family members who have passed. I want to be in a place where there are no more goodbyes. No more tears. No more pain. 

I’ve got a good support system. I’ll get through this 4th stage of grief and eventually be on to acceptance, but I don’t think it’ll make me hurt less. My daddy was too great to not leave a great, big, gaping wound behind when he left this earth.

You may call it denial. I call it clarity. 2 weeks and 5 days ago my family had a memorial service for my dad. After it was over, somebody said to me, “Sheri, I wish I had the relationship with my dad that you had with yours. You’ve been so blessed.” At the time, I couldn’t even begin to process the magnitude of such a statement. My grief was too big. Too fresh. Over the next few days, my grief weighed heavy on my heart. Dad was all I thought about, and every time I laughed it felt like nothing more than a masque for my sorrow. I asked people who’d lost loved ones, “How long does it take for the ache to stop consuming me? Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.” They’d look at me with knowing eyes and gently say, “Sheri, you’ve got a long road ahead of you. Embrace your grief. Let yourself be sad. You’ll get through this.” I’ve lost many loved ones. Seven, actually, in the last 8 years. And I’m not talking about 3rd cousins twice removed. I’ve lost 2 grandmas, 1 grandpa, 2 uncles, my 21 year old cousin, and now my dad.  I’ve experienced the sting of death too many times already. When I lost my mom’s mom, the grief hurt more than I ever could have imagined. I thought I’d never recover… but I’d never lost a parent. At dad’s viewing, my cousin, Bryan, had to hold me up. I’ve always been the strong one. I’ve always been the rock for people to lean on.  But when this daddy’s girl saw her big strong daddy lifeless in his casket, she nearly collapsed from the weight of the grief. A week went by and I still couldn’t see past my tears, and then a few days ago, it was as if the fog rolled away and I remembered what that person had said to me at dad’s memorial service; “…you’ve been so blessed.” It hit me like a gust of wind on a cold winter day.  My dad went to every marching band contest, every football game (even though he hated them), every band concert, and every school production I was involved in. His eyes sparkled when he talked about his girls. There were times when we’d be talking and he’d get quiet and look at me with a twinkle in his eyes. I’d ask why he was looking at me “like that” and he’d say, “You’re so beautiful. Did you know that?” Or sometimes it was, “I’m just so proud of you.” In 28 years, I got more out of my daddy than a lot of people get in a lifetime; I got more love, more laughs, more life lessons, more hugs, and more affirmations than most have the privilege of receiving. My dad was gentle, kind, loving, and funny.  And because he was so good, I know I can get through this. So today I’m counting my blessings. I’m finding joy through my sorrow. I’m making lemonade with my lemons. And mostly, I’m thanking God Almighty that I’ll see my daddy again someday. Today, the grief seems to have been transformed into joy. View high resolution

You may call it denial. I call it clarity.

2 weeks and 5 days ago my family had a memorial service for my dad. After it was over, somebody said to me, “Sheri, I wish I had the relationship with my dad that you had with yours. You’ve been so blessed.” At the time, I couldn’t even begin to process the magnitude of such a statement. My grief was too big. Too fresh.

Over the next few days, my grief weighed heavy on my heart. Dad was all I thought about, and every time I laughed it felt like nothing more than a masque for my sorrow. I asked people who’d lost loved ones, “How long does it take for the ache to stop consuming me? Sometimes I feel like I can’t breathe.” They’d look at me with knowing eyes and gently say, “Sheri, you’ve got a long road ahead of you. Embrace your grief. Let yourself be sad. You’ll get through this.”

I’ve lost many loved ones. Seven, actually, in the last 8 years. And I’m not talking about 3rd cousins twice removed. I’ve lost 2 grandmas, 1 grandpa, 2 uncles, my 21 year old cousin, and now my dad.  I’ve experienced the sting of death too many times already. When I lost my mom’s mom, the grief hurt more than I ever could have imagined. I thought I’d never recover… but I’d never lost a parent.

At dad’s viewing, my cousin, Bryan, had to hold me up. I’ve always been the strong one. I’ve always been the rock for people to lean on.  But when this daddy’s girl saw her big strong daddy lifeless in his casket, she nearly collapsed from the weight of the grief.

A week went by and I still couldn’t see past my tears, and then a few days ago, it was as if the fog rolled away and I remembered what that person had said to me at dad’s memorial service; “…you’ve been so blessed.” It hit me like a gust of wind on a cold winter day.  My dad went to every marching band contest, every football game (even though he hated them), every band concert, and every school production I was involved in. His eyes sparkled when he talked about his girls. There were times when we’d be talking and he’d get quiet and look at me with a twinkle in his eyes. I’d ask why he was looking at me “like that” and he’d say, “You’re so beautiful. Did you know that?” Or sometimes it was, “I’m just so proud of you.”

In 28 years, I got more out of my daddy than a lot of people get in a lifetime; I got more love, more laughs, more life lessons, more hugs, and more affirmations than most have the privilege of receiving. My dad was gentle, kind, loving, and funny.  And because he was so good, I know I can get through this.

So today I’m counting my blessings. I’m finding joy through my sorrow. I’m making lemonade with my lemons. And mostly, I’m thanking God Almighty that I’ll see my daddy again someday.

Today, the grief seems to have been transformed into joy.

My whole world came to a halt this past Wednesday around 11:45. I was at my co-worker’s desk telling him how great my dad was doing. “He just had his final surgery and he looks so good. He’s in a lot of pain, but he’s thrilled to finally be home and he’s in such good spirits.” As I spoke, my other co-worker got a phone call. She sounded panicked. She got off the phone and said, “Sheri, that was your mom. Come with me. I’m taking you home. Your dad has passed away.” Confused, I just looked at her and said, “Huh?” She gently said, “Yeah. He passed on. You need to come with me.” I was in shock. It’s been 6 days and I think I’m still in shock. He was 54 years old and the kind of man that everyone loved. Seriously. I can’t think of one person that disliked my dad.  He was gentle, kind, and loving. He was the kind of man who made other people want to be better, and I should’ve had another 30 years with him. How does a girl go on without her daddy? I love you dad. I miss you already. View high resolution

My whole world came to a halt this past Wednesday around 11:45. I was at my co-worker’s desk telling him how great my dad was doing. “He just had his final surgery and he looks so good. He’s in a lot of pain, but he’s thrilled to finally be home and he’s in such good spirits.” As I spoke, my other co-worker got a phone call. She sounded panicked. She got off the phone and said, “Sheri, that was your mom. Come with me. I’m taking you home. Your dad has passed away.” Confused, I just looked at her and said, “Huh?” She gently said, “Yeah. He passed on. You need to come with me.” I was in shock. It’s been 6 days and I think I’m still in shock.

He was 54 years old and the kind of man that everyone loved. Seriously. I can’t think of one person that disliked my dad.  He was gentle, kind, and loving. He was the kind of man who made other people want to be better, and I should’ve had another 30 years with him.

How does a girl go on without her daddy?

I love you dad. I miss you already.

Open heart surgery

My day began at 5:00 AM.  At 5:45, I rushed out of the house and headed for Bentonville - about 45 minutes away.  I followed my mom and sisters to the hospital.  We arrived at 6:30 AM.  It’s currently 5:40 PM and I’m still sitting in the hospital waiting room. 

At 6:30 this morning I kissed my dad and watched the nurses wheel him away while trying to fight my inner voice that kept asking, “What if this is the last time I see daddy alive?”  I refused to acknowledge such possibility.  There was no need in worrying myself with the “what ifs.”  I’d just have to handle whatever life dealt me today.  The chaplain updated us every hour.  “They’ve harvested the vein in his leg for the grafts.  They’re about to open him up now.” … … … “He’s on bypass now.  Everything is going well.” … … … Around 10:45 she came in and said, “He’s off bypass.  His heart started back up immediately when they took him off.  Word on the street is that he had 5 arteries replaced.”

I put my head in my hands and sobbed.  Relief.  I’m crying again just thinking about it.  Finally I could breathe again.  I hadn’t allowed myself to grieve or consider any negative outcome so when I knew the scariest part of the day was over, I couldn’t hold it in anymore.  The chaplain said they’d leave him open for 30 minutes while the doctor monitored his heart to make sure everything was functioning properly.  I think we got to see him around noon but I can’t be sure.  Today has been quite a blur.  Around 3:00 they took dad back into surgery.  He was losing too much blood so they needed to go back in, find the bleeders, and cauterize them. 

More waiting.

I think it was about 4:30 when the surgeon came out.  Everything went fine.  Opening him back up was just a precaution.  There were a couple of very small bleeders that would have stopped on their own but he was able to remove the clots which will actually help with recovery. 

They expect him to wake up anytime now.  He woke up between surgeries and fought the ventillator.  I hate seeing him like that.  Really. Hate. It.  I don’t think I’ll go back in until they remove it.  The nurse told me it will be sometime between 8:00 and 10:00 tonight before they take it out.  I’m exhausted.  I’m weepy.  I’ve randomly cried throughout the day ever since I heard that he was off bypass.  I just want him to be well.  But thank God they found this.  Otherwise, he could have dropped dead from a heart attack.  I’m ready for bed.