Five years of, every day, some moment of "I'll never hear his voice again" or "I should have said 'I love you' more" or "I should have fought harder" or "I never should have let those stupid doctors move him" or "Everyone and everything you love will be taken from you, so be afraid all the time" or "You didn't deserve to keep him, so you don't deserve anything at all" or "I did this. I don't know how, but the fault is mine, because if I take the blame, then this fury can go somewhere, and I have someone to be angry at, and can hate them, because someone should be held responsible, so it should probably be me." Every single day. For five years.
In those five, Mom and I saw him fight and struggle and grow and fade. We saw the true content of the character of our family and friends, both positive and negative. We gained a sister and nephews. We tried, so so hard. We lost him. We moved on. We regressed. We almost lost each other. We finally stopped crying. We gave up. We fought back. We chose to be happy. Wherever it is for that day, we simply do our best.
I think about how the five shaped me, my relationship with my mother, my relationships with those I love, and how I see the world so differently now. I think about how I feel broken, yet somehow maturely complete. I think about how it seems like it began a lifetime ago, and then instantly unreal and he should be on the other end of that phone when I call the now-disconnected number.
When I look at my life now, it's full of admirable achievements and relationships. I've done...ok. But I wonder if the life I've built would make him proud. I wonder if he's ever going to get over how much I loathe Fox News and smooth jazz despite his affinity. I hope he thinks I'm taking good enough care of Mom. I hope he's happy for her.
I think about my amazing partner, who knows only the post-traumatic version of me. I feel sad about how much he would've loved Dad, and how much Dad would've loved him, and been relieved that there was someone on this earth that could keep up with me (his words, literally. He was afraid that would never happen). They should have had the chance to find common ground on barbecue and whiskey, and sparred over religion and politics. Each time I remember that I'll never see them in the same room, I'm heartbroken.
But, it's simply the way things are. Time has passed; it's not new or urgent any longer, and somehow, that's worse. I have passed the statute of limitations on living consumed in my grief. It's ok to be sad, but not too sad, because that was five years ago and seriously, you should be able to handle it by now.
I've become a much more private person in this time. My social circle is smaller, and I'm much less public about feelings, with the internet age of over-sharing only partially to blame. But every so often, I hold myself accountable to being open and honest with this tiny corner of the electronic universe. On these milestones, I need to be honest about where I am, who I've become, and remember how this has shaped me.
A few weeks ago, a cab driver was polling all his customers. He asked me: "What is life?" I answered:
To do your best to be happy. To do what you can to care for those you love. To convince those you love that it's worth it, and let go if they can't.
That's what these five have taught me. That's all I need to try to do. And I'm ok, trying my best. This conversation shows what I can do today.
I love you Dad.
