Five part two.

Five years ago today, my father left us. The sting isn't new, but the absence is still achingly real.

In the time that's elapsed, I've become a pretty different person. I'm more introverted. I'm quieter. I'm the photo that appears in the dictionary next to "abandonment issues." I'm slower to love, because I'm irrationally convinced that love will leave. More often that necessary, I feel I don't deserve goodness. I have less blind hope.

But I'm also more mature. I'm mostly stronger. I pay more attention to things that truly matter, and don't make time for things (and people) that don't. I'm emboldened to tell the truth. I'm closer to my mother. I'm more prepared to become one myself, when the timing is right. I relish in the pleasantly uneventful. I know that the only things I really want out of life are happiness and taking care of the people I love. I'm as ok as I can possibly be.

This is me now. I miss him every day. I'd give my own life to have his back. But I can't, and he wouldn't let me do that anyway, so I must live, love, and build as he would demand that I do.

The most fitting way I can see to commemorate today is to share his eulogy. Five years ago this week, I gave this address, under a gorgeous blue Arkansas sky, to a standing-room-only church full of guests. It's all still true, and it's the way I choose to remember this day.

...

For those in the back that can’t see just how much I look like him, I’m Ashlee, Tim’s daughter. And for thirty years I had the most loving, precious, witty, thoughtful, generous, and hysterical father imaginable.

My family and I would like to thank you for the kindness and generosity you’ve shown us, specifically in the last few months. Judging by your warmth and support, you all seemed to know just how neat of a guy Dad was. Although recent focus on my father had to do with his devastating accident, those aren’t the definitive memories of him I’d have you remember.

I want you to remember his smirk. His love of every artist on the Motown record label. His ridiculously dry sense of humor. That uncontrollable cackle he had when something really cracked him up. The way his face lit up when he talked about his dog. His unending, humble love of God and the church. His quiet, intense love for his family. How he always loved hunting, but only magically got better after the year 2000. Seriously, he was horrible for 20 years, then boom- marksman. His incredible memory, at a moment’s notice, for every lyric ever sung by the Temptations. The way he’d poke fun at his wife Gloria, but with a sparkle in his eye that let you know just how much he adored her. His hearty baritenor voice while he belted out gospel hits in the church choir. The seemingly endless supply of couduroy jackets with elbow patches. That ever-present glass of iced tea. How with a few very carefully selected words, he’d speak what it took others pages to say.

Countless memories flood my headspace as I think of how I should illustrate the father I knew, from our yearly trip each fall to get firewood to the silly made-up language that only me, my parents, and the dog understand to “name that tune” games on rock radio when I was nine. But this one sticks out to me right now:

My father was obsessed with weather and watched the Weather Channel incessantly, but I’m pretty sure it started because they plated smooth jazz in the background during the weekend forecast (after he turned 50, he had this thing for Spyro Gyra). After moving to Chicago, Dad would call me to check in, and would always ask how the weather was. I’d tell him, and then he’d explain to me how he already knew that. He’d been watching the forecast for Chicago for the last ten minutes, and wanted to make sure they were “doing their job.”

Times with my father weren’t always rosy. In fact, there were times when "rosy" seemed light years away. But in the end you knew that no matter what, underneath it all, he’d do everything in his ability to make you happy. That’s who I remember.

I refuse to let this be a day of sorrow, remorse or self-pity.

I choose.

I. Choose. 

I choose for this day to be one of joy, love, and tribute to what an amazing guy he was. I’ll remember that he was a fighter, to the very end. A man of God, a brother, a husband, a father. And hopefully to all of you, a treasured friend.

Five

The passage of time seems hallucinatory. Truly, I never thought I'd survive long enough to say "it's been five years." Five years since the accident. Five years since the phone call from my aunt Treissa telling me to drop everything, get on a plane, and not arrange a return flight. Five since we lived in the hospital's intensive care unit for weeks, grasping, clinging to any form of positive news, begging him in one-sided conversations to fight for his life. Five since I first saw my mother mentally crumble, then inexplicably rebuild with grace daily.

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. 

3.

I only write here once a year now. I'm probably the only person who's seen this page in a few years. That doesn't matter. It's worth keeping because it works for me.

March 4, 2013 makes 3 years since he died. I could recount the story, as I do in my head at least once a week. I could remark that some days the events feel so long ago that the intricate details are fading, or how some days I forget they even happened. I could say that I'm not sure I'll ever get over it, and how I weep if I think about it, or him, for too long. 

I could tell you that my chest still tightens at the rev of a motorcycle, and that sometimes it still leaves me unable to speak. I could talk about how certain events of the past year were moments when a daughter really needed her father, and that I've faced them alone.  I could reveal that as much as I love my friends, I get irrationally angry and rabidly jealous that their dad did "the funniest thing last week," and how it's not fair that they get new issues in their subscriptions and I don't.

I could describe the achy, helpless, hopeless yearning I still feel when I encounter daddies and little girls in the park, or the coffeeshop, or in my work. I could tell you that my own reflection saddens me when I see his laugh lines, and that my tiny hands and feet are his tragic replicas. I could admit that, even after years of therapy, sometimes when I remember he's gone, I don't want to be here either, and that I'd rather join him.

I could agonize because I know some of my choices have disappointed him. I could hide, embarrassed and ashamed of my mourning, unable to act the part of a human. I could give in to the sporadic yet tempting desire to stop functioning. I could, tonight, sit here, feel less than and damaged, and do nothing.

I won't.

I will acknowledge that the struggle continues. I will admit to not always being ok, and recognize the constant battle between the emotional conscience and the rational. I will miss him, but do so politely, delicately, and progressively. I will banally remind everyone that moments with loved ones are limited, and that if you don't appreciate them, I will physically fight you. I will tend to all my paternally-inherited physicalities: wash my curly hair, ice my bad back, paint my tiny toes, and sport my absurdly thick glasses. And I will write, just as I do each year, about the man I miss. I will cry. Then I will scream. Then blame myself, then laugh. I will then practice gratitude and smile. Because there's nothing that irritated Daddy more than a person who didn't realize just how good they'd had it.

I do, Daddy. I really, really do. Thanks for that.

I remember

It's March 4. The second anniversary of my dad's passing. I don't sit here mourning in a black shawl every day. But on landmark dates I do feel the need to reflect, if only for a moment.

Two years ago today, I was antsy and waiting for time to pass so I could get on a plane to him. I hadn't seen him since January, the longest absence since the accident. Then I got a phone call that changed everything. Today, after a day of seeing off a friend/a little shopping, I'm sitting on my couch with my dog, doing work while watching the Blackhawks beat the Red Wings. It's been a pleasant, quiet day, and that won't change with this look back.

I wonder exactly how much of my life my dad sees now. I wonder if he's proud of me, if he approves of the choices I make, and if he thinks I'm doing a good job in my relationship with mom. I know he'd make fun of my outfits, of my geriatric chihuahua Opal, and mostly, of me when I second-guess myself. He was the least worried of any of my family when I moved to Chicago, because in his words, "that girl ain't scared of nothing. Nobody's gonna walk on her."

I hope he understands my missteps, recognizes then forgives the moments that I lose confidence, laughs at the jokes I make to myself, beams with genetic repletion when I sing, and is proud when I truly get things right.

Most of all, I hope he know that I love him. And that still miss him, every single day. And because of his insistence on me knowing the entire Motown catalog by age 10, I'm unstoppable at pub trivia.

New chapter

I can't believe it's been a year.

A year ago today, my mother went through her daily routine: woke up, got Daisy the dog ready and on her leash, then went to the nursing facility to spend time with Dad. He had a relatively good day, with minimal progress, and lots of dog petting. I love that he had finally gotten to a point where he recognized his beloved dog. And when I say beloved, I mean beloved. He called me Daisy by accident more than once.

I was just finishing up audition season here in Chicago, and after six long weeks, was prepping to hop on a plane to get home, see my Daddy and check out his new digs. Mom held the phone up to his ear (like she had done every day before) as I told him that I couldn't wait to see him, and I'd be there first thing tomorrow, and I loved him.

I never got the chance. He passed peacefully in his sleep that evening.

The flurry of events that followed are recounted below in previous posts. It was the most heartbreaking, supportive, frustrating, cathartic and beautiful week of my life. You can't prepare for that series of events, no matter how logically you try. It brings out the truest content of everyone's character. I learned a lot about the people in my life that week, both positive and negative, uplifting and devastating.

I am forever changed by that chapter of my life. But it's time to close that chapter.

It's doubtful that I'll ever stop mourning, but I made an agreement with myself that after a year I'd turn a corner. And after countless phone calls, chats into the wee hours, and extensive sessions of therapy, I think I'm ready. Mom and I promised each other that we'd be together on this date, and we are; she's here with me in the city. We're still a family and we will honor this time as such.

I miss him every day. That won't ever change. But the further away I get, the more I understand about why things are the way they are. I don't have to like them, but I do have to live with them. A piece of me died with him that day, but it's up to me to use the remaining pieces to live, just as he's always expected of me. Only now he's got a balcony seat to the show.

One Year

A year ago today, my life changed forever.

I got a call from my mother's cell phone at 5 am. I ignored it, thinking she accidentally pushed a button in her purse by mistake. Voicemail. Then another call. Then another. I groggily picked up the phone, ready to grumpily ask my mother why in the world she'd bug me at such an ungodly hour.

I didn't hear my mother's voice, but my aunt Treissa. Her voice was numb, somber but sweet. All I heard was "Baby, we need you to come home...right now." I asked how long I needed to be there, and I was told to get a one way ticket.

I wasn't in my body after that. I levitated for the next 4 hours. I had gone through this drill a year earlier with my grandmother's accident. Email all immediate parties of the situation: boss, higher boss, art director, and anyone I had appointments with for the next two weeks. Throw clothes in a bag. Toiletries were already packed from all the work travel from which I'd just returned. Go to work in my pajamas to make arrangements for my absence. Then get. on. that. plane.

This time, though, was different. With Grandma, the damage was done, and she was gone. Moment to moment this situation changed, improved then worsened. He's going to die...nope, he's not...and back again. For the two hours I was in the air with no communication, I had no idea whether he was already gone. All I could think of was my mother, and how much I wanted to be there to protect her. Protect her from all the pain and fear and wondering "Why us again?" that was creeping into my soul.

The hours, days, weeks and months that followed made me the person I am today. I witnessed defiant strength, indescribable compassion, boundless love, and the power of kindness of strangers. I was amazed by the wonders of the human body, and devastated by its limitations. As much as I thought I knew my mother, that connection expanded to facets I'd never discovered. And through everything, I grew to understand that I'll never understand why things happen the way they do, only that they do and your only power is your response to them. Fight like hell for what you believe in, but accept defeat gracefully if it fails.

There are days when I forget anything even happened. More than once I've picked up the phone to call my father, ready with a great story that I know he'll love. I've even dialed a few times before I snapped out of it. Other days I'm consumed with the overwhelming reality of it all. There were days I'd see a little girl on a swingset in a park with her daddy, and it was all I could do to keep upright. I've never been the type of woman who dreamed of her wedding day, but now all I know is that he won't be there in a corduroy jacket with some ridiculous comment moments before we walk down the aisle.

But it's ok.

This is what has happened. It is what is our present, here and now. And to be able to get out of bed every day, we look the painful memories in the eye, find the good and smile. Get up, shower, drink the coffee, and live another day. We see the little girl in the park with her daddy. Watch her curls bounce and hear her giggle. Even wave if you feel up to it. And know that no matter where life takes us, the spirit of the little girl remains, giggling, curls bouncing, and forever loving her big strong Daddy.

Requiem aeternam et lux perpetua luceat eis.

Today, I bury my father.

The funeral service was beautiful. The church was packed almost to capacity. Last night's visitation had around 400 people, with a line out the back door and an hour's wait to visit the family. Though the weather forecasts predicted rain, during graveside there wasn't a cloud in the gorgeous Arkansas blue sky. I spoke on behalf of the family at the funeral. Those words are listed below:

For those in the back that can’t see just how much I look like him, I’m Ashlee, Tim’s daughter. And for thirty years I had the most loving, precious, witty, thoughtful, generous, and hysterical father imaginable.

My family and I would like to thank you for the kindness and generosity you’ve shown us, specifically in the last few months. Judging by your warmth and support, you all seemed to know just how neat of a guy Dad was. Although recent focus on my father had to do with his devastating accident, those aren’t the definitive memories of him I’d have you remember.

I want you to remember his smirk. His love of every artist on the Motown record label. His ridiculously dry sense of humor. That uncontrollable cackle he had when something really cracked him up. The way his face lit up when he talked about his dog. His unending, humble love of God and the church. His quiet, intense love for his family. How he always loved hunting, but only magically got better after the year 2000. Seriously, he was horrible for 20 years, then boom- marksman. His incredible memory, at a moment’s notice, for every lyric ever sung by the Temptations. The way he’d poke fun at his wife Gloria, but with a sparkle in his eye that let you know just how much he adored her. His hearty baritenor voice while he belted out gospel hits in the church choir. The seemingly endless supply of couduroy jackets with elbow patches. That ever-present glass of iced tea. How with a few very carefully selected words, he’d speak what it took others pages to say.

Countless memories flood my headspace as I think of how I should illustrate the father I knew, from our yearly trip each fall to get firewood to the silly made-up language that only me, my parents, and the dog understand to “name that tune” games on rock radio when I was nine. But this one sticks out to me right now:

My father was obsessed with weather and watched the Weather Channel incessantly, but I’m pretty sure it started because they plated smooth jazz in the background during the weekend forecast (after he turned 50, he had this thing for Spyro Gyra). After moving to Chicago, Dad would call me to check in, and would always ask how the weather was. I’d tell him, and then he’d explain to me how he already knew that. He’d been watching the forecast for Chicago for the last ten minutes, and wanted to make sure they were “doing their job.”

Times with my father weren’t always rosy. In fact, there were times when "rosy" seemed light years away. But in the end you knew that no matter what, underneath it all, he’d do everything in his ability to make you happy. That’s who I remember.

I refuse to let this be a day of sorrow, remorse or self-pity. I choose for this day to be one of joy, love, and tribute to what an amazing guy he was. I’ll remember that he was a fighter, to the very end. A man of God, a brother, a husband, a father. And hopefully to all of you, a treasured friend.