In a few hours, very early tomorrow morning, it will be exactly one year since my Dad died.
One year.
When someone you love dies, people tell you that the one-year anniversary will be hard. You nod, thinking you know what they mean. At least, that's what I did--nodded and thought, "Of course, I know that." I didn't, though. Not really. It's one of those things you can't know until you live it for yourself.
In some ways, today felt like the anniversary of Dad's death. I arrived at the Hospice center on the evening of last October 3rd, and didn't sleep again until a few hours after he died during the wee hours of the morning of the 4th. It all felt like one very long day to me, from leaving Estes Park, Colorado right after breakfast to going to sleep nearly twenty hours later in Michigan. For a while, I even had some fleeting confusion about the date that he died, thinking it was the 3rd for just a second each time I talked about it, even though I knew it was really the 4th. Four days before his 68th birthday on the 8th. Eight minus four is four, I would remind myself, so he died on the 4th. Not the 3rd.
These dates, they matter. They stick with us. For the last year, on the 4th of every month I would realize it had been one more month. One more whole calendar page of days without him. Days full of good things and bad things and in-between things, but all things I couldn't talk to him about. It felt like progress when one month, it was evening on the 4th before I realized what day it was.
About ten or twelve days ago, I learned that our bodies may even remember dates our brains forget. I started having insomnia--not something I usually struggle with--right about the one-year anniversary of the day that Dad was admitted to the hospital for the last time, even though that date wasn't in my conscious memory.
It turns out, the one-year anniversary of a loss isn't just the day of the anniversary. It's a window of time, different for every person I am sure, during which you frequently think, "One year ago now..." It's like a series of snapshots, compiled into a very jerky home movie. They move slowly at first, and then pick up speed.
One year ago now, Dad was in the hospital again. We didn't know yet that it would be any different from the many other times he was hospitalized in the last decade.
One year ago now, I talked to him on the phone and he told me how proud he was of me. We both knew there was a chance it would be our last conversation, but neither of us said so.
One year ago now, he moved from the ICU to Hospice, and everything became a matter of when, not if. I remembered a friend who was in Hospice for a few months, and hoped we had that much time. I planned to fly out in less than a week for his birthday, in case we didn't.
One year ago now, I got the call from Mom saying it was time to come, right now, less than 24 hours after he entered Hospice care. I walked out of the leadership retreat I was attending, telling two friends on my way out the door where I was going and why.
One year ago now, I was talking aloud in my car on the way to the airport, saying, "Please hang on, Dad, please hang on," as I prayed to get there in time. And then I added, "But if you can't, it's okay," even though it really wasn't.
One year ago now, my godmother picked me up at the airport and I was afraid to ask her whether or not Dad was still alive.
One year ago now, Dad was sitting up in his Hospice bed, eating ice cream with me and telling jokes.
One year ago now, my brother arrived and wordlessly hugged Mom and me. Dad recognized him, spoke to him by name, and then wasn't conscious much longer.
One year ago now, I told Dad that it was okay to let go, that we loved him and would miss him but that we'd be okay. (I wasn't completely convinced it was true. Nothing about it felt okay.) I remembered him saying something similar to his mother just hours before she died, and I knew it was important to say it to him.
One year ago now, I kissed Dad good-bye and whispered in his ear, even though I knew he was already gone.
One year ago now, I drove Mom back to their condo. Sometime after that, maybe days later, I realized that it was now her condo. I still struggle with those pronouns sometimes. Theirs. Hers. What a difference those two missing letters make.
The moments didn't stop piling up, though they did slow down again over the months and now the year since that night, that early morning, those early days and weeks during which time temporarily lost most of its meaning as we found our way through new emotional territory.
It gets easier. This is what I want to say to anyone who is in the early days of grieving. It gets easier. Month by month, life takes on a new normality. It's never exactly the same as the old normal, but enough of it is that you slowly become more comfortable with it. It gets easier. It does.
And also, sometimes, it gets harder. Anniversaries. Milestones. Moments when you want to tell the person something, show them something, laugh with them about something. Moments when people say, "Your Dad would be so proud of you right now," and you know it's true, but you want to hear him say it himself, damn it.
The churches I serve now as Ministerial Resident--something that I know would have made him proud--have monthly themes. This month, the theme at one of them is "Letting Go."
One year. What does that even mean, when you're talking about letting go?
I miss my Dad every day. More some than others, but every day. After a whole year of those days, I understand that although I told him that he could let go, it doesn't mean I ever have to. Not completely. With time, I hope I'll let go of a few of the tougher memories from a year ago. I'll hold on to the ones from further back, the ones from the forty-three-and-a-half years we were in this world together. Compared to that, a year doesn't feel so big.
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