Here We Are

So, here we are.

I knew we would be here some day, but it's still a shock.

I'm fine sometimes. I'm a mess others.

Grief is not what I expected.

We lost my dad three weeks ago. Those words are still hard to write.

Right now, it's all I think about.

I've been more productive than I thought I would be. I have been more motivated than I expected. I don't spend hours crying. I miss him desperately. Sometimes I can't breathe because I feel his absence so heavily. We're getting through it though, and I almost feel guilty just for that.

We didn't know we were going to lose him when we did. He was sick and probably didn't have long, but we didn't know he was dying. I was there for his last seconds, even though we didn't know that's what they were. It was scary, but I'm so glad I was there.

The last thing I said to him was that I loved him. He told me he loved me too and went back to sleep. Less than an hour later, he crashed and was gone.

My best friend. My hero. My cheerleader. My idol.

The smartest person I have ever met.

I am struggling with the fact that there was so much knowledge packed into his brain that no one can access anymore. There are stories and facts and history and experiences. They're locked in a vault that's now in a wooden box under ground.

I love him and I miss him and I'm not sure how this is supposed to go.

We spend a lot of time laughing about things that he did or said. That's what he would want. We talk about him all the time, and we know his stories so well that I feel like he's here sometimes.

My dad was 48 when I was born. My dad was old enough to be my grandfather, and I was acutely aware of that throughout my childhood. I have a distinct memory of the moment that this occurred to me. I was five years old and sitting in our playroom. From that moment forward, I lived in near constant fear that he was going to die. Old people die, I thought. Those thoughts never left me, and I planned and considered and worried about it daily until he died in front of me.

You know when you plan for something for so long that it's hard to believe that it's done when the time comes?

That's where I am right now. I forget that he's gone and that I don't have to worry anymore. I still worry about him like we're going to lose him.

I talk to him every day. I pray for a response so that I know he's here.

We're getting through this, even though it's difficult. We're finding ways to cope. It's not all sad. He got to meet the baby. He held her and fed her. He sang her a song and rocked her. She was so calm while in his arms. I would have been too.

I miss him desperately, but he wouldn't want me to sit still. He would want me to move on and find my next happy.

He was my best friend, and I told him that shortly after he was diagnosed with cancer. He said that I was his, too. Then, a few weeks later, when I went to go home from a day with him, he looked at me and said, "You're my best friend, too. You should know that."

I did know that. I will always know that.

I miss him so much.


It's hip to be square, kids.