Memories

Dear Dad,

I now know that losing a parent is not easy. Other people who have lost their parent(s) have told me that. They have told me that we each grieve in our own way, that it goes in waves, that I need to give myself time, and on and on.

This makes me wonder how you grieved when your parents died. You never talked a lot about them. It was as if there was something of a shield there. And then later in life, you found photos and put them on a bunch of disks and made sure that each of your kids got a copy of those pictures.

What keeps running through my brain is every time I called your house. You always wanted to be the one to answer the phone, even when we were kids, and the phone always had to ring twice before you answered it. We would sit there sometimes and watch as you waited for the second ring to end before picking up the receiver.

“Hi Dad.” “Hi Beth.” That was every time I called your house as an adult and generally was looking to say hi to you and talk to Mom. Always you answered after the second ring. If you didn't answer after the second ring, I could count on you not answering because you weren't home. Predictable.

Growing up, I was the most ticklish person, ever. So you and I had a game where we would surprise each other by poking the other person in the ribs. But you always got me - easily. And I would jump. And I got you - twice - that's it. And you didn't jump at all but you did laugh. I remember those two times - I got you right next to where the phone was located (before cordless phones), where the kitchen, the family room, and two short hallways met. That was the only place I could surprise you. I wonder if that is because you were always waiting for a phone call so my poking was not anticipated.

The mail - also something you wanted to get first. You would wait for it to arrive. And your kids - we wanted to beat you to the mail. And we would even try to beat you by waiting on the lawn, out of sight, because you were inside and we were closer outside. But you still found a way to get to the mail first. Fun fact: getting the mail is now not important to me at all. Maybe that’s because there’s no race to it.

Speaking of races, we both raced. You told me your best time in the 800, which was your favorite race and my favorite race. You got taken out of running in college by a stress fracture. I got taken out due to legs not cooperating. But when I ran, you were always there to cheer - you and Mom - always. I don’t think either of you missed any of my running through high school and you both even came to a college cross-country meet of mine. And you would always yell “stride,” and I would always think, “what do you think I am doing?” The last time I went to the track was the day you were transferred into hospice. I was timing myself and all the way around the lap, I just kept thinking "stride, stride, stride." And it finally meant something! I told you that when I went to visit you that same day - that I got my personal best time that day by imagining you were telling me to stride. I may try that again.

When you were in hospice, the chaplain visited and got my brother and me to tell stories of growing up with you. There are many. Near the top of my mind was when I learned to bike - I was working on riding without training wheels, and I mastered it. I wanted that - me riding my bike without training wheels - to be your birthday present (which was only days away). But then you had to be on the roof for something and you saw me - happy early birthday. You gave your kids a lot of early birthday presents, too. If we needed something big, well, happy early birthday present!!

St. Patrick’s Day. You were a good part Irish. And that day? You never wore green on it. You thought that was such a silly American thing. I was so afraid of being pinched if I didn’t wear green. Not you. St. Patrick's Day to you was an American holiday that was silly. But I will continue to wear green on March 17.

The symphony: going to the symphony with you was the best. We did that occasionally - just the two of us - when Mom let me have her ticket. Actually, going out to dinner and getting a steak, before the symphony, was the best part of the symphony. Going to sports events was fun, too. The best part of those was cotton candy. I wonder if you knew how important the food was to me.

Speaking of food - our kitchen table. Most of the time you and Mom talked about your day. Sometimes something would happen that would be hilarious and we would all be laughing. And when it was deemed too out of control for the table, we would have to go sit by the stairs until we could stop laughing. Those times when you laughed - there weren't a lot of them - but they were memorable.

And just so you know, Dad, all those times when a light was left on upstairs when we came down for dinner, and you made one of us kids go up to see who left their light on? Well, I am not sure we always told the truth when we returned, you know, about who left their light on, because whoever did leave their light on was supposed to be the next kid to have to go upstairs the next time a light was left on. So if we went up and discovered we had left our light on, why would we admit that?

Your service is coming. One night when you were in hospice I felt the need to stay up late to find all pictures of you, for the eventual service. I was so focused. I needed the photos that night, in my mind. That’s probably why I got sick. Four hours of sleep after photo-searching was not the best idea.

But your service - we picked the hymns and I informed people how much Kleenex I would need per hymn. We have a bunch of pictures to put on poster board. The pastor is going to wear the stole of your dad’s - the one worn at all of our weddings. Now it will be worn for your service. 

We had some great times - I got that by looking at the photos - memories have been very present recently. You are constantly weaving into my life now in memories. 

"Hi, Dad." "Hi, Beth." I can still hear your voice, clearly.

And it is never easy to lose a parent. Cherishing the memories.

Peace.