He's Still Not Here

It finally happened. 299 days. I needed to call Dad and couldn't.

I've been away from the blog for a while. To be honest, we've been busy and who wants to read about grief all the time anyway?

I love to share memories of Dad. I think about him every day. I miss him more than anyone could know. I want to text him pictures of Wesleigh. I want him to spend holidays with us. It's so incredibly hard to just keep living life without him here to share it.

Today, after 13 years of driving, I ran out of gas somewhere. I had switched cars for my Dad's truck to haul some pavers home from Lowes and just out of hurry didn't realize I was driving on fumes. Made it to Lowes and loaded up the car only to get back in and have the truck not start.

That's when I needed to call Dad. He's the one I would've called, had he been here. Even after getting married, he's the first I would've called to rescue me.

I would love to talk to him daily. I yearn to hear his voice or see his name on my phone screen, sending me a picture of Newman, asking for a picture of Wesleigh. But today, I REALLY needed him. It was the first time he couldn't just come when I couldn't help myself and nobody else was around.

Thankfully, there was a gas station right next to Lowes. I went inside, bought a gas can and walked over to fill it. A nice cashier showed me how to use it (kinda complicated actually) and I was able to put gas in the truck. It started. Away I went.

It's weird the moments that can smack you in the face with grief. 299 days. It's not any easier than day 1.

Little Red Bird

Yesterday, this would've been a different post. Completely different.

My dad has been gone 2 months. I have felt quite hopeless lately. I make it through the day. I even have happy moments. Life doesn't stop. But I have been on the edge. I have felt lost. I miss him.

I think people get a lot of things wrong about death. Maybe everyone just has their own experience. I surely wouldn't agree that time makes it easier. Sure, you find a new normal. You get up and go to work and do what you've got to do. But it's not easy. You don't miss them less. Time just makes it seem more real. They aren't coming back. 

Presence has been a big misconception for me too. People make it seem like their loved ones are "there" constantly. I wasn't feeling that. I was not feeling it in the least bit. I actually have never felt more alone and abandoned by someone. Of course I know it wasn't his choice, I don't blame him. But I couldn't feel my dad around. Not one second of one day. 

Today, 44 days later, I finally FINALLY felt him. He was here today. I am 100% sure of that. 

Before he passed away, my dad told us to watch for hawks and red birds. I have looked high and low. Nothing. 

So here we are today. Jesse and I celebrated our anniversary a day early. Three years we've been married! We decided that Chama Gaucha would be our new go to spot for an anniversary feast! We first went there for dad's birthday. Being there made me miss him. I wish he could've been helping babysit Wesleigh while we were out. 

When we got home, we went outside to take our annual anniversary photo. After we took the picture, we were hanging out playing with Wesleigh and her new bubble gun when I saw it.

A red bird. A beautiful, lone red bird. 

He was there today. My dad. I know it was him, sending us a sign. An anniversary sign. How could he not today? He was a big supporter of our marriage. I know he loved Jesse like he was his own. I know he genuinely thinks Jesse is my perfect match. I know he thinks we'll make it for the long haul. 

Today, my faith was restored. My hope returned. A tiny piece of my broken heart was healed. I am now a believer. Loved ones may not get to make their presence known every day, but they are there when you need it most. They are there to pull you back from the edge right when you feel like you're about to fall. When you feel like giving up, they'll make sure you hang on for one more day. 

Today was a good day. An honest to God good day. I got to celebrate my marriage over a beautiful lunch with my husband. I came home to my sweet little soul of a daughter, and dad graced us with his presence. 

I hope when I feel like my hope is fading, I can hold onto this moment until the next one comes. 

Loss

We lost my dad the day I last wrote. He passed away Jan 8, 2016 in the afternoon. Surrounded by his family.

 

It doesn't feel real most moments. Hits you like a ton of bricks when it does. I read an article about grief that described it as waves and so far I think that's pretty accurate.

 

I haven't really spoken to too many people about his passing. It seems strange to call people just to tell them someone is gone. I guess I don't know what to say and I know other people don't know what to say. What can you say?!

 

Everyone wants to know if you're ok. I always say yes. I know some people just ask out of niceties. I know some who ask really do care and want to know the hairy details. Either way, it's hard to say much else than "yes I'm ok."

 

The truth is, I'm not ok. I compartmentalize. I hide behind having a child to care for. I just keep putting one foot in front of the other because life doesn't just stop. Grief doesn't take a holiday. Heartache doesn't care that tomorrow is Monday and it's back to work.

 

The truth is, my eyes have been opened to weird things. Things I never even thought about before seem to be the things plaguing me most. Like where dad is in the meantime before he is cremated. I want him home. I'm now wide-eyed to the fact that some people suck. People who should rally for you, people who should've been more of a presence the last three years. Now they are coming out of the woodworks. Where were you then? I certainly don't need them now. Those are regrets they can live with, not me. People say strange things too. "At least you had three more years." "You all had time to prepare." Yes, we did have 3 more years. And I am beyond thankful. In those three years my dad got to walk me down the aisle, he got to see my daughter be born. Those three years were not easy. I challenge anyone to watch a loved one day in and day out deteriorate and have them feel good about it. They were three blessed but hard years. And I can tell you, three years is not enough time to prepare for a loss. Not by a long shot. How the heck do you "prepare" for someone to be gone? It's not a vacation, it's not one missed phone call, it's not one missed family night or holiday. It's forever.

 

The truth is, I'm sad. I'm angry. I'm exhausted. I'm relieved. I'm terrified. I'm worried. I'm heartbroken. I'm forever changed. I am now a daughter without a father.

 

I worry about Wesleigh. I now have a child who is missing a grandpa. Old enough to sense it, not old enough to understand. She's had a rough couple of weeks. Thank God kids are resilient because she's finally returning to her old self. We are trying to remind her every day of the bond they shared. It's a huge weight to bear to make sure she never forgets that Grandpa Steve loved her with every fiber of his being. That he wished he could play more. That he wished they had more time.

 

There will always be this gaping hole. A constant void. The pain is unbelievable but it also serves as a reminder of my dad. That he was here. That there were loving relationships.

 

I'm sad and I miss my dad.

 

But we'll keep going, because you have to.

The End

I thought yesterday was going to break me. Here I am today. Exhausted. Overwhelmed. But here nonetheless. 

I haven't sat down to write about so many things: our sweet little babe turned one in November! We've had holidays. We've had fun days. We've had hard days.

Right now, seems the only thing to write about is the end, with death knocking at the door. I can't really talk about it to people I feel closest to. I guess I can write about it.

If you've read any of my other posts you know my dad has cancer. He's fought a long hard battle for 3 years. His fight is coming to an end. Of course nobody really knows but his hospice nurse is guessing less than 3 days. 

It's hard. Sitting and waiting is hard. He's in so much pain. We don't want him to suffer anymore but if he's not then that means he's gone. 

It's weird. I worked the first half of the week. Trying to stay busy. We went over in the afternoon but I didn't want to sit there all day. Now I'm off work and it seems like the days are so long. We aren't doing anything but it's exhausting. Not like being tired or new mom exhausting, a whole new kind.

It's hard to give yourself a minute for a breakdown when you have a baby to care for. I'm thankful for her. You can't stop, she still needs to be taken care of. I feel so guilty though. She has this huge weight on her tiny little shoulders to keep us going. She doesn't even know that most of the time our sanity rests in her because we can't fall apart or she'll be neglected. 

I worry about her. Every second. She's too young to know exactly what's going on but too old not to notice something isn't right. She knows right where to find grandpa, but he can't play. She goes looking for him and seems confused when he doesn't respond. She's also sick right now. I'm sure she wants to be home in her comfort spot but she can't be right now.

I guess we're all just doing the best we can. It's hard. Pray for our family. I know we'll be ok, but it feels almost impossible some moments. 

Joy and Heartache

Ever notice how complete joy and heartache feel sorta the same? Just me? 

I mean, my heart literally feels like it might explode from both. Explode. 

I never knew what motherhood could do to a person. I always wanted to know. Nothing could prepare you for the emotions. No classes. No mom blogs. No "back in my day" stories. No nothing. 

Motherhood is work. Hard work. But it has got to be one (if not the) most rewarding titles ever. 

I cannot even begin to describe to you the pure joy my daughter brings to my life. There are no words. She is this tiny, little ball of contagious happy. It is mind boggling, yes, still, almost 8 months later, that we made her. My genes and Jesse's genes collided to make this beautiful little life. And she is our greatest joy. A joy so big that my heart literally feels like it will burst. A love that feels like it cannot be contained. 

Then there's heartache. My dad is dying. The very thought of it makes me feel like, you guessed it, my heart might explode. 

I get in these places sometimes where it's all I can think about. When will it happen? Where will I be? How? (Cancer obviously but what exactly will be the tipping point?)

Holidays and special days are both fantastic and hard all at the same time. I love making the memories, especially with Wesleigh. She may not remember but we can tell her and thanks to photos we can show her. But then there is always the lingering thought of "is this the last..." 

I just can't imagine a world without my dad. I don't want to. 

So one day my tombstone might read "heart exploded" because I have all the joy in the world from my family and all the suffering I can bear. 

There We Are

Sometimes, a single moment can reenergize you. I had one yesterday.

Jesse and I were going to meet my brother at the movie theatre to see Jurassic World. When we left our home, it was barely raining. By the time we got to the theatre it. was. pouring. Of course we found a nice parking spot as far away from the door as possible. No problem, I had an umbrella. 

Didn't matter. The rain was coming down horizontal! As soon as I stepped out of the car my shoes were filled with water. By the time we made it to the door, we were soaked. My brother was inside and said, "movie is sold out." cue the blank stares. We had just trudged through a torrential downpour for this movie. Of course none of us really wanted to stay for the next showing so we decided to call it a wash. 

We huddled together and headed back out into rain. There was really nothing else to do but laugh. What kind of goofballs get out in that kind of weather to go to the movies?! 

We made it back to the car and we just couldn't help but laugh at ourselves some more. We were drenched, head to toe. 

It was actually a pretty miserable moment but also so fun. Sometimes it's easy to feel lost in the daily shuffle. Parenting, cancer, work, life. It's hard not to feel like you're going through the motions sometimes. 

It was so refreshing to have this moment. A "there we are!" moment. My husband and I are still madly in love and can have a fun time spending 5 minutes in the rain together. 

Unimaginable

I had actually planned to post about joy and suffering but it'll have to wait.

Today, my heart is so heavy. I heard about a story. Randy Rogers (ya, know, the band guy) had a baby girl recently. Rumer Rain only lived a few days. Sadly, their baby girl passed away. A seemingly healthy baby, just gone. They discovered some rare brain condition after birth. 

My heart just hurts for this family. For any family going through this. I cannot imagine a deeper, soul crushing pain. I have literally been thinking about it all day. Besides a spouse perhaps, losing a child has got to be the worst heartache. 

I think the only thing worse would be what happened to another poor family a few weeks ago. Families vacationing in New Braunfels were devastated when their vacation home was uprooted by floodwaters and smashed into a bridge. Only one survivor was found. That poor man. I'll bet a part of him wishes he had died with his family. Wife, gone. Kids, gone. There are two little children still missing. I think that would be worse. Dead and missing. He may never have the chance to say goodbye. Every day he has to think about his kids out in the elements. Where are they? If their deaths alone didn't drive him crazy, I'm sure the where thoughts would. I think it's safe to say I would be out there day and night searching. 

So today, I longed for my own baby. I wanted to hold her tighter, longer. I wanted to soak her up in a deeper way than every other day. I wanted to see her. I knew she was just fine at daycare but I wanted to see for myself. 

Love your babies. Hug them. Kiss them. Praise them. Raise them. Teach them. Enjoy the time you have.

The loss of a child is a pain I hope to God we never have to endure. It would break me.