As I'm leaving for Norway tomorrow, and I will be there until Sunday, I feel compelled to write something that I have been giving a great deal of consideration for a long time now.
Dear Daddy,
On Saturday, November 21st, 2009 at 5:05 pm (Eastern Standard Time) it will be twelve years since you lost your battle with cancer. It will be twelve years since my big, strong, courageous Daddy gave up his last breath. Sometimes it feel like you took me with you when you went. Sometimes it feel like I can't even go on another minute for the sadness of the whole thing. And then I remember how badly you wanted to live, how desperately you loved life, and clung to it with every fiber of your being.
Life was a gift for you. You never took it for granted, even before you were diagnosed with cancer. I remember when you scooped the little baby cardinal out of the pool one summer and cradled it and quickly fashioned a make-shift nest to stow in the pine trees so that its mom would her it calling to her and she would come rescue it. You had such respect for life, and such an understanding of nature. I miss playing basketball with you, when you would lift me up so high so that I could make a dunk. I remember the time you let me ride my bike by myself on the sidewalk around the neighbourhood for the first time, but you had to drive alongside me the whole way. Some woman pulled over and asked me if you were bothering me and I casually replied "no, that's just my dad."
I loved everything about you, your thinning grey hair, your blue-yellow eyes, your bright smile. You were all legs, just about the tallest man I've ever met in my life. It doesn't seem fair that cancer could come and steal such a healthy and wonderful person.
I was in the flower garden on the side of the house when you told me you were sick. The tulips had just come in and the air was fresh and rich with spring. We had just moved to the new house, it didn't seem fair that you should get sick.
I remember being in the kitchen, many months later, when mom told me you were dying. No one ever candy-coated the issue for me, no one ever treated me like a child. I would go up to your bedroom every day after school and lay with you and Candy, reading or watching videos or just talking. I was so scared to let you out of my sight.
When you went to the palliative care unit at Hartford Hospital, we all knew you were very near the end. Ducky and Candy took it the hardest, they loved you so much. Ducky died within a week of you, she couldn't bear to live in a world without you. I know Ducky is curled up on your shoulder, I bet you can hardly get the darn cat off of you. It took Candy eight years to follow you home, but I know she's sprawled out across your lap right now, like any giant overfed black lab.
It's a lot easier to pretend like it doesn't hurt that you died, as I imagine it's easier to pretend that a lot of things in life don't hurt. But it does hurt that you died. It hurts every single day of my life. It hurts every single day of mom's life. It hurts every single day of Becky's life. We miss you so much.
Twelve years is too long for a daddy to be away from the people who love him. But I know that someday, when it's our time, we'll all be together again, and there won't be pain or fear. There will just be boundless love and happiness.
I'm blessed to have had a father who loved me more than the sun the moon and the stars. I'm extremely blessed to have had two parents who loved each other more than oxygen, and loved their child with every fiber of their beings. I'm equally blessed to rest easy knowing that my mother and father will love each other into eternity, and my parents loved me and wanted me. I only wish that my daddy could have been there to see me walk across the stage at graduation. I wish you could have been there to give me flowers when I performed in orchestra concerts and competitions. I wish you had been there to carry me home when I broke my arm (roller-blading on the ice) when I was ten. I wish you had been there on my sixteenth birthday to hand me the card you had made and the beautiful pearl necklace you made sure to get for me before you passed away. More than anything I wish you were there when your three beautiful grandchildren came into this world. I wish you could carry them on your shoulders, cradle them gently in your strong arms, walk with them wrapped around your legs.
Life would be so different if you were alive today daddy, who knows if it would be different for the best or for the worst. I often say "I would not give just anything to see my daddy again," but the older I get, the more I believe that to be a lie. I would give anything to see you again, to smell you, to hug you, to hold your hand.
My last memory of you alive is curling up alongside you in your hospital bed, two nights before you died. We both fell asleep alongside each other, you with your arm as my pillow and me with my arm wrapped around your stomach. I have the best memories of you. Thanks for being the reason I can honestly say that I had the greatest dad ever.
Love you forever,
Rachel
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Showing posts with label cancer. Show all posts
Thursday, November 19, 2009
Friday, October 9, 2009
How Do You Cope?
No one has ever asked me that question before, until last night.
Basically my story starts out with a bunch of twenty-year olds drinking and having nothing to do. But the drinking and nothing to do part is unimportant. The debauchery was only the bridge from polite conversation to indepth conversation.
We started the night out with five of us, sitting in our dorm room, drinking and talking. By the time we left the room we were all feeling good. We went to a bar and I had a few drinks, and by the time we left the bar I was almost too drunk to walk, but I did all right. I can still remember everything clearly, and that's all that matters.
We went back to our room, five of us had become six by this point (we ran into one of our friends in the dorm lounge). We all went back to the room and listened to music and talked (loudly) into the wee hours of the morning. I was trying to stay awake to talk to Hillary at 2:30 am my time this morning anyway (9:30 pm her time), so it was nice to have some company while I waited. We never got to talk anyway, but staying up late was worth it.
Eventually the numbers dwindled and six became four. We were all sitting around in true college fashion, drunk and wrapped in blankets to keep warm in these chilly London nights. We were also playing truth or dare, and since we are all too lazy to accept any dares we all chose truth. The main topic was, naturally, sex, because what else is there to talk about after all?
So it is understandable that I was very taken aback when my friend (a new friend, might I add, who I only just met a month ago) asked me how I cope with my father's death. Thankfully I was sober enough to not cry in emotional drunken sadness, but too drunk to give her a concise answer.
So I rambled on for the better part of fifteen minutes about how people who didn't watch their parent literally waste away and die before their eight year old eyes are clueless as to how I feel, and that it is an incredibly lonely place to be. I have so much pressure on me to be the best, to never cry, to never show weakness because I'm my mother's rock, I'm her one constant. And she's my one constant, so she feels compelled to be strong for me. We have to be srong for each other and neither of us can ever cry or ever grieve or ever shout out in fear and sorrow and anger.
But I mess up, I'm human, and sometimes I'm not constant and sometimes I'm weak. All the time I'm messing up and I am disappointing someone because I can't be what everyone wants me to be.
The hardest part of having to cope with my father's death is that my father was my best friend. The strongest love I've ever felt for another living thing in this life I felt for him. He was amazing, one of the greatest people God ever put on this Earth, and I'm not just saying that because I'm sprung from his loins. He was truly amazing, and a definite blessing to everyone he met. No one on this Earth can compare to my father, my love for other people can't compare to the love I still have for my twelve-year dead dad.
The saddest part of his dying is that his grandchildren never got the chance to meet this man. This man who would have loved them so much.
I don't really cope with it. I don't cry about it and I don't talk about it (unless someone directly brings it up, ordinarly). I still feel like a trapped eight year old, lost and alone searching for her daddy everywhere and never finding him because he is long gone. I guess I'll always feel like an eight year old, lonely and heartbroken and wishing God would have taken me instead of smashing my heart into tiny pieces of jagged glass that can never be repaired.
And that's what I told them, in a long drawn out soliloquy of no tears and no other noise besides the hum of my soul coming out of my mouth.
I don't know if they heard me, or if they know how sad I am and how fragile I am. But I do know it felt so so so good to be asked how I feel about my father's death. No one has ever asked me that in twelve years. No one has ever wanted to know how I feel before. And finally someone asked, and it was the most relieving experience I've ever had. Finally someone cared about me and my ability to handle something no eight year old should ever have to handle. I just felt so good.
Basically my story starts out with a bunch of twenty-year olds drinking and having nothing to do. But the drinking and nothing to do part is unimportant. The debauchery was only the bridge from polite conversation to indepth conversation.
We started the night out with five of us, sitting in our dorm room, drinking and talking. By the time we left the room we were all feeling good. We went to a bar and I had a few drinks, and by the time we left the bar I was almost too drunk to walk, but I did all right. I can still remember everything clearly, and that's all that matters.
We went back to our room, five of us had become six by this point (we ran into one of our friends in the dorm lounge). We all went back to the room and listened to music and talked (loudly) into the wee hours of the morning. I was trying to stay awake to talk to Hillary at 2:30 am my time this morning anyway (9:30 pm her time), so it was nice to have some company while I waited. We never got to talk anyway, but staying up late was worth it.
Eventually the numbers dwindled and six became four. We were all sitting around in true college fashion, drunk and wrapped in blankets to keep warm in these chilly London nights. We were also playing truth or dare, and since we are all too lazy to accept any dares we all chose truth. The main topic was, naturally, sex, because what else is there to talk about after all?
So it is understandable that I was very taken aback when my friend (a new friend, might I add, who I only just met a month ago) asked me how I cope with my father's death. Thankfully I was sober enough to not cry in emotional drunken sadness, but too drunk to give her a concise answer.
So I rambled on for the better part of fifteen minutes about how people who didn't watch their parent literally waste away and die before their eight year old eyes are clueless as to how I feel, and that it is an incredibly lonely place to be. I have so much pressure on me to be the best, to never cry, to never show weakness because I'm my mother's rock, I'm her one constant. And she's my one constant, so she feels compelled to be strong for me. We have to be srong for each other and neither of us can ever cry or ever grieve or ever shout out in fear and sorrow and anger.
But I mess up, I'm human, and sometimes I'm not constant and sometimes I'm weak. All the time I'm messing up and I am disappointing someone because I can't be what everyone wants me to be.
The hardest part of having to cope with my father's death is that my father was my best friend. The strongest love I've ever felt for another living thing in this life I felt for him. He was amazing, one of the greatest people God ever put on this Earth, and I'm not just saying that because I'm sprung from his loins. He was truly amazing, and a definite blessing to everyone he met. No one on this Earth can compare to my father, my love for other people can't compare to the love I still have for my twelve-year dead dad.
The saddest part of his dying is that his grandchildren never got the chance to meet this man. This man who would have loved them so much.
I don't really cope with it. I don't cry about it and I don't talk about it (unless someone directly brings it up, ordinarly). I still feel like a trapped eight year old, lost and alone searching for her daddy everywhere and never finding him because he is long gone. I guess I'll always feel like an eight year old, lonely and heartbroken and wishing God would have taken me instead of smashing my heart into tiny pieces of jagged glass that can never be repaired.
And that's what I told them, in a long drawn out soliloquy of no tears and no other noise besides the hum of my soul coming out of my mouth.
I don't know if they heard me, or if they know how sad I am and how fragile I am. But I do know it felt so so so good to be asked how I feel about my father's death. No one has ever asked me that in twelve years. No one has ever wanted to know how I feel before. And finally someone asked, and it was the most relieving experience I've ever had. Finally someone cared about me and my ability to handle something no eight year old should ever have to handle. I just felt so good.
Friday, November 21, 2008
Live and Live and Live
Fight hate with love. Fight death with life.
I went to bed at 8:30 this morning and woke up at 1:30 this afternoon, almost positive that depression was setting in. I blame myself for his death in many ways. I don't have a magic cancer wand that I waved to get him sick, but I was little and a lot of it I didn't understand, didn't want to understand. I wasn't in the room when he died, but I felt it down the hall in the kitchen with my uncles, drinking beer and talking old times. "How's your father?" "Good, I said," and went back to his room. I felt him die in my heart between the kitchen and his hospital room.
I didn't understand that they wanted him to be cremated. I wanted him to be put in the ground with flowers and grass and a headstone that I could visit. I visit George in the winter now, this year will be two years, and I touch the frozen earth with my fingertips, the same fingertips that whisper sad notes from my violin. Cancer took two of the greatest men I ever knew.
I listened to the hum of the machines, the whirring and the silent salty tears that dropped onto the bed sheets and the carpet and the windowsill. Circle of Life came on the radio and then, by the son's end, he was gone.
I miss the jokes he used to tell more than anything, and the way he smelled when he hugged me, and the sound of his voice calling my name from across the yard.
I just want to live and live and live and never have to deal with the consequence of life. I want to love and love and love and never have to face the reality of hate.
I went to bed at 8:30 this morning and woke up at 1:30 this afternoon, almost positive that depression was setting in. I blame myself for his death in many ways. I don't have a magic cancer wand that I waved to get him sick, but I was little and a lot of it I didn't understand, didn't want to understand. I wasn't in the room when he died, but I felt it down the hall in the kitchen with my uncles, drinking beer and talking old times. "How's your father?" "Good, I said," and went back to his room. I felt him die in my heart between the kitchen and his hospital room.
I didn't understand that they wanted him to be cremated. I wanted him to be put in the ground with flowers and grass and a headstone that I could visit. I visit George in the winter now, this year will be two years, and I touch the frozen earth with my fingertips, the same fingertips that whisper sad notes from my violin. Cancer took two of the greatest men I ever knew.
I listened to the hum of the machines, the whirring and the silent salty tears that dropped onto the bed sheets and the carpet and the windowsill. Circle of Life came on the radio and then, by the son's end, he was gone.
I miss the jokes he used to tell more than anything, and the way he smelled when he hugged me, and the sound of his voice calling my name from across the yard.
I just want to live and live and live and never have to deal with the consequence of life. I want to love and love and love and never have to face the reality of hate.
Tuesday, November 18, 2008
Still Numb After All These Years
Friday is the eleven year anniversary of my father's death.
Cancer doesn't know about daddies, or moms, or brothers and sisters, or grandmothers, or uncles, or cats or dogs. Cancer knows life, and it will stop at nothing to destroy it.
I watched for two years as my father slowly wasted away, and eventually died right before my eyes. I felt his hand soften in mine and go limp; his hands that held me high in the air, that tossed baseballs for me, that sewed patches to my girl scout vest.
I often wonder what our lives would be like today if he had never died, if he had never been sick. So much of my life and my mother's life and my sister's life is a response to his sickness and death.
I can't help but feel like I'm always missing something. I miss the man who told his seven year old daughter fart jokes, who lifted me up so I could dunk a basketball, who danced with me on his feet in the kitchen, who held my mother close and wished he never had to let go. He didn't want to have to let go. He loved life so so so much and he had the world to live for. I've come to terms with it over the last eleven years in my own way, in the smiles of his grandchildren, whenever the leaves rustle on a breezy day, when the air is still and the world is quiet, when someone's eyes say "I love you," when my hand feels warm on a cold winter day, and I know my daddy is there with me.
But I wish he could see us now, see how far we've come, see how much we love life even in his long absense. I know that he sees us, but I wish he were here experiencing this amazing life with us.
It doesn't get easier, it never gets easier. There are dozens of things I wish I could tell him, tons of things I want him to say to me. I wish I could see him hold his grandchildren. I wish he could hold my mother's hand one more time. I wish I could dance on his feet in the kitchen again.
It's just not fair.
Cancer doesn't know about daddies, or moms, or brothers and sisters, or grandmothers, or uncles, or cats or dogs. Cancer knows life, and it will stop at nothing to destroy it.
I watched for two years as my father slowly wasted away, and eventually died right before my eyes. I felt his hand soften in mine and go limp; his hands that held me high in the air, that tossed baseballs for me, that sewed patches to my girl scout vest.
I often wonder what our lives would be like today if he had never died, if he had never been sick. So much of my life and my mother's life and my sister's life is a response to his sickness and death.
I can't help but feel like I'm always missing something. I miss the man who told his seven year old daughter fart jokes, who lifted me up so I could dunk a basketball, who danced with me on his feet in the kitchen, who held my mother close and wished he never had to let go. He didn't want to have to let go. He loved life so so so much and he had the world to live for. I've come to terms with it over the last eleven years in my own way, in the smiles of his grandchildren, whenever the leaves rustle on a breezy day, when the air is still and the world is quiet, when someone's eyes say "I love you," when my hand feels warm on a cold winter day, and I know my daddy is there with me.
But I wish he could see us now, see how far we've come, see how much we love life even in his long absense. I know that he sees us, but I wish he were here experiencing this amazing life with us.
It doesn't get easier, it never gets easier. There are dozens of things I wish I could tell him, tons of things I want him to say to me. I wish I could see him hold his grandchildren. I wish he could hold my mother's hand one more time. I wish I could dance on his feet in the kitchen again.
It's just not fair.
Wednesday, May 21, 2008
First Blog WooHoo
Hey so this is my first blog, and I really don't have much to say right now.
Well that's actually not true, I have A LOT to say (and I mean a lot). But before I get to all the fascinating things that I have to share with the world, there are some things I should probably share about myself.
I'm eighteen right now, turning nineteen in mid-June. That doesn't mean I don't have any life experience, trust me I have plenty. Not your typical 'oh my significant other broke my heart' or 'I failed the math exam' bull either. I have life experience, for realz.
My father died of cancer when I was a wee puff of smoke. Cancer is bad, very bad, and we should all be working on a cure instead of fighting wars and killing innocent people with mothers and fathers and babies. We should also be working on a cure for AIDS.
But I don't know anyone who has AIDS, and I'm not going to lie and say I wish I did, because I would probably die of a broken heart.
My mother is a great lady, she works very hard and has made a great life for me. I only hope that some day I can return the favor.
I'm from the East Coast and I go to college in Bostonia, but the city gives me the heeby jeebies so I stay mostly in suburbia.
I play lacrosse, basketball and soccer, and I swim, hike, and bike. I enjoy nature, long aimless car rides, golf courses (but I hate golf, though I'm not opposed to the idea), small animals, large animals, people, things of that nature.
I'm a lesbian, I came out my senior year in high school. Before then I was a lesbian, but I didn't know it yet. I'm out to everyone in my college, but almost no one from high school. I'd like to say that the people who matter know, but my mom doesn't know (neither does the rest of my extended and very close family). I'm relatively certain the polos and birkenstocks give it away. And the fact that I freakin love girls. But mothers can be a little dense. We're going to Pride Week in Disney World this year, perhaps the perfect time to tell her?!?!
I'm not your typical, butched out, crunchy, earth loving, granola bar eating, mullet wearing dyke though. Well that's not very true. I love the earth, and granola. Mullets are the funniest things in the world, but I will never have one. And I'm not especially butch, only a wee bit.
So that's me, in a nutshell. I don't beat around the bush (and I do enjoy some good old fashioned hate on George W. Bush), I tell it like it is or like I want it to be, anyway.
Oh and I support Hillary, even if the media has given up hope. YOU GO GIRL!
So the things I'm going to talk about include: How much narrow-minded people SUCK, Homosexuality in general, coming-out and the trials and tribulations, dealing with being a young adult, college, the sucky economy and my never ending search for employment.
Let me know if I'm annoying too. Hopefully, as posts go on, I'll stop using the work 'I' so much.
MUCH LOVE, stay safe out there!!
- Ray
Well that's actually not true, I have A LOT to say (and I mean a lot). But before I get to all the fascinating things that I have to share with the world, there are some things I should probably share about myself.
I'm eighteen right now, turning nineteen in mid-June. That doesn't mean I don't have any life experience, trust me I have plenty. Not your typical 'oh my significant other broke my heart' or 'I failed the math exam' bull either. I have life experience, for realz.
My father died of cancer when I was a wee puff of smoke. Cancer is bad, very bad, and we should all be working on a cure instead of fighting wars and killing innocent people with mothers and fathers and babies. We should also be working on a cure for AIDS.
But I don't know anyone who has AIDS, and I'm not going to lie and say I wish I did, because I would probably die of a broken heart.
My mother is a great lady, she works very hard and has made a great life for me. I only hope that some day I can return the favor.
I'm from the East Coast and I go to college in Bostonia, but the city gives me the heeby jeebies so I stay mostly in suburbia.
I play lacrosse, basketball and soccer, and I swim, hike, and bike. I enjoy nature, long aimless car rides, golf courses (but I hate golf, though I'm not opposed to the idea), small animals, large animals, people, things of that nature.
I'm a lesbian, I came out my senior year in high school. Before then I was a lesbian, but I didn't know it yet. I'm out to everyone in my college, but almost no one from high school. I'd like to say that the people who matter know, but my mom doesn't know (neither does the rest of my extended and very close family). I'm relatively certain the polos and birkenstocks give it away. And the fact that I freakin love girls. But mothers can be a little dense. We're going to Pride Week in Disney World this year, perhaps the perfect time to tell her?!?!
I'm not your typical, butched out, crunchy, earth loving, granola bar eating, mullet wearing dyke though. Well that's not very true. I love the earth, and granola. Mullets are the funniest things in the world, but I will never have one. And I'm not especially butch, only a wee bit.
So that's me, in a nutshell. I don't beat around the bush (and I do enjoy some good old fashioned hate on George W. Bush), I tell it like it is or like I want it to be, anyway.
Oh and I support Hillary, even if the media has given up hope. YOU GO GIRL!
So the things I'm going to talk about include: How much narrow-minded people SUCK, Homosexuality in general, coming-out and the trials and tribulations, dealing with being a young adult, college, the sucky economy and my never ending search for employment.
Let me know if I'm annoying too. Hopefully, as posts go on, I'll stop using the work 'I' so much.
MUCH LOVE, stay safe out there!!
- Ray
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