Grief: Nine Months Later

Dear Dad,

When I think about what an incredible summer I had I know that you were smiling along with me the entire time. You've always told me that I push too hard and need to relax more often and that's exactly what I did (and it was amazing!). I missed you and talked about you or to you every day but not in a remorseful way. Rather, in a way that made me realize that we're going to be okay and that there's still a lot of life to live and lot of happiness to be shared.

Then, a couple of weeks ago, grief decided to show with up a forceful roundhouse kick that's knocked me down and frankly, I can't figure out how to get back up. There's the obvious - I'm a hormonal mess and the thought of you not meeting your grandbaby makes me feel like someone has ripped my heart out of my chest and shattered it to a million little pieces. Of course we'll talk about you all the time and will cherish photos and memories that we have, but there won't be any 'live action', to use your beloved phrase. No Mr. Ticklefinger, no baseball games with you, no epic super-soaker fights, no feeding nuts to squirrels on the front stoop. On top of that sadness, though, there's another layer. I miss my dad. I miss going to the movies with you, trying new restaurants, emailing articles to each other frequently. I miss it all, and there's no replacement.

I've had too many days recently that I've cried myself to sleep or cried all the way to school. Part of me is also so scared. Whereas for the first few months after you died, I found solace in the fact that I found you and that no one else had to experience that, its been haunting me recently. As much as I try not to let my mind wander to that black hole, it happens and it's panic inducing. It's hard to come to terms with the fact that I'm the only one who has those moments to remember. I don't want to describe them to others, and yet I long for someone else to be able to relate to what that afternoon was like.

We still haven't gone through your clothes, and this is something that I've been purposefully avoiding. As much as I can try to emotionally harden myself and say they're just pieces of fabric, they're not. They're the tye-dye shirts that you got when we took mom to the Grateful Dead concert for her 40th birthday (their last one with Jerry Garcia!), the UVA swearshirts that I bought for you and you so proudly wore, and the old shoes that you refused to ever replace. I remind myself that doing these things and feeling the anger and sadness that accompanies them is all part of the process (and an important part), but I'm not to the point where my actions are following my words.

Mom and I started going to therapy together (I know you're giving this one a big thumbs up), and its been extremely beneficial for us to have a safe space to talk and grieve along side one another. It's not always easy, but we're learning to be there for one another in meaningful ways and to redefine what it means to be close. It's an odd thing trying to redefine a family unit when such a large piece is missing.

You know that I've struggled for a few years anxiety surrounding death, specifically the 'what in the world happens to you when you die?' part. Oddly, though, those thoughts have completely vacated my mind since you've been gone. It has taken a lot of thinking and self-reflection, but I'm finally able to put into words why this has happened, even though I can never say or write it without the tears streaming. Here is it, though: frankly, I no longer care what happens to me when I die because if I have people that remember me and think of me the way that I remember and think of you all the time, then that's all that matters to me.  If I can live a life that inspires and influences others in a similar way that you have, then everything that I ever hoped for has been fulfilled.

As you know (especially because you have the best seats to every game!), the Nats are KILLING it recently. Mom, CP, and I love going to the games together and we know that you're there in spirit. It's hard to believe that I could be going to my first ever World Series game and you won't physically be there, but you better believe that we'll all be indulging in a Ben's Chili Bowl half-smoke in your honor. It's crazy to think that our little bean will be here for next season!

More than anything daddio, I just miss you. So much. Every day. I know that it gets easier with time, but it's not easier right now. Maybe it's because the fog has cleared and the finality of you being gone is staring me straight in the face. Know that you are missed in a way that words can never express and that we're always working hard and being nice in honor of you. Love you.