I hear the phone ring, my brother's sobbing voice on the other end of the line. The kitchen floor rising up to meet me and my husband shaking my arm, asking whats going on. The blurred lines of the road - the longest drive of my life - until we arrive and all there is is wailing.
Flashes of his face on a screen with an end date and hugs of thousands of arms, none of which are his. I can't breathe. I can't breathe. I can't breathe.
The orientation of my office seems to be off and I can feel the room spinning unnaturally. In the background the radio is playing "It is well" and my reality keeps glitching between hearing the song in my office and hearing it at my dad's funeral one year ago. When I reach up to hold my head, to try and make sense of the sudden change in time and space, I notice my face is wet. Somehow I end up sobbing into the arms of my new boss in the parking lot.
At home, I finally pull myself together - wash my face, drink a cup of tea - and then the lies set in.
I hate to cry, I hate to cry in front of people even more, and uncontrollably crying in front of my new co-workers and in the arms of my boss is pretty much my worst nightmare.
Gosh, I felt so stupid. So weak. Why couldn't I just pull myself together and get through the work day or at least to the lunch hour? Why couldn't I be strong enough? Why, after one year, was I still so uncontrollably run by grief?
It seems that there is this stigma: that after one year passes, and you're no longer having all those "firsts", that somehow you should be moving on. But I really think that the "seconds" are just as hard because you realize the space between you and them [your loved one] and the life you had is growing.
The funny thing with loss is that it has accomplished what scientists have been trying to do for years - it messes with time. It feels like my dad has been gone for years and simultaneously like he could walk in the door at any minute. And to be honest, I'm not sure that the number of years, months, days, minutes since he died actually affects the strange time warp of grieving him. I'm not sure that the number in front of the words "anniversary of Jeff's death" will ever make a difference to how strongly and deeply I react to the song "It is well".
My dad is engrained not only in my DNA, but in my memories, my heart, my dreams, my behavior, my actions and reactions. He is a part of me. And you never forget that you had a leg, even if it gets cut off. You never stop missing how you functioned when it was there.
I will never stop missing my daddy. I will never be able to forget the sound of his voice, the feel of his arms around me, the way he danced so terribly, the look of his hands fixing something, the way he tapped his foot when he played the bass, the irritating song he sang off key to wake me up in the morning.
And there is no shame in that. There is no shame in grieving. There is no shame in crying.
If you have lost someone dear - whether 30 years ago or 3 days ago - I want to tell you there is no shame in how you continue to miss them. We never really move on, we just learn to move forward - and forward doesn't mean away.
Each day brings us closer to eternity and we are all eternal souls. Each day brings me not further from my dad but closer to him again.
So here is to you daddy - I miss you so completely and I still can't seem to wrap my mind around the fact that you're gone. But here is to the hope of forever, where I will meet you again and there will be no end date.
“He will wipe away every tear from their eyes, and death shall be no more, neither shall there be mourning, nor crying, nor pain anymore, for the former things have passed away.”