When the loss feels so great.

Sometimes I just want to cry. Or have 10 minutes where I can hang my head and feel sorry for myself. It isn’t a permanent thing. Can’t I just go there?

Today I was sent some old photos from my childhood. Photos of my family, with my dad’s family. Photos from another life. I sometimes can’t even begin to believe that life existed, and then I realize how I’ve blotted it out. Put it away, only to be brought out of the closet for moments like these. It’s been mulled over, analyzed, cried over, laughed over. And now it only seems to be described by that one word: over.

It’s hard to understand these ramblings, unless you know a little bit about my family. It’s hard for me to remember… isn’t that strange? I sometimes wonder if it is a coping mechanism, or maybe a little bit of memory loss… hard to say really. What I do know, is that it is hard for me to remember many things beyond 5.5 years ago. That marks the start of one of the biggest whirlwinds of my life. The night I found my dad.

It was such a lonely moment in time. And I was, in the instant alone. I was holding the heartbreaking news. My dad had taken his life. And what had he left behind? Didn’t he think? Didn’t he know I would come home to find him there. That everyone was gone… moved away, and his daughter, his ash, would come home to her lifeless daddy. And this is where I cry. This is where I wonder why there wasn’t enough hope? Not enough hope in his 5 daughters, his son, or the upcoming arrival of his first grandson. Not enough. Sometimes I think “If he only knew all that he would miss…” But then I push the what ifs aside… “he did know!” I shout. And so I can stop lamenting his absence. I tell myself, he would not be his old self. What if he was still laying in that blue house… What if I was still coming by to make him food, or wash his dishes, or remind him to shower. To find the wash still in the machine after days. To have him tell us one more time “You don’t love me. Don’t say that. I’m not a good dad.” But then I have hope. Hope that he would be his old story telling, laughing, arm swinging self. That he would have laughed with my boys, “a dee dee dee” and all. Oh dad. I miss you.

Here I sit. I married the son of your best friend. I walked down the aisle by myself, and I cried for you alone at the stairwell just before I made that walk to the man of my dreams. I mailed you a letter to heaven, when I really missed you that first Father’s day. A card, of all the things you were to me. The things I didn’t get to tell you, that I wished would have made a difference. I have a son, with your blue eyes. He is so sweet. He calls your best friend “Opa” and they laugh together. You would love little Gabey. His face exudes joy, his laughter life. You now have 5 grandsons and one sweet little grand daughter. Funny how the tables turn… you aren’t out numbered anymore!

Sometimes your absence hits me at the strangest time. When a girl laments her dad. When a son loses his father… when anyone loses a father. When I  get a kiss from my father-in-law. Whew.The loss is so great. But why then, does it seem so easy to forget you? I just want to hear you, your laugh. I want to remember the things you said. What did you think of me? What did you see in me. What did it sound like when we laughed together? You used to make us laugh. I miss your dad dance. I miss the way you swung your arm… I miss the way you would tell me “Two hands!” When I hit a one-handed backhand. I miss the way you would always call the dogs mine when they acted up… or the cats, or the rabbits. I miss the way you said “Howdy” when you answered the phone. Or how you would always ask me which was my favorite… “So, what do you like better…” I miss the way you would always put our names into the story you were reading- even the Christmas story! That made me so mad. I miss listening to oldies with you on our MANY hours spent driving to dance, or school. I miss you taking cat naps while you waited, with your hat over your eyes. I miss your hats. I miss you telling me “Life is not a fashion show.” There are so many things I want to ask you. So many things I wish I knew.

I just wish! I just wish you could see me and Matt. I wish you were here. I took your advice… “You should marry a really nice guy. Like the Koomans. They are nice guys.” You were so right. We miss you. All of us. We talk about you sometimes, and we laugh. I can’t say how much of a gift it has been for my “other” dad to be someone who called you friend. Who knew you and loved you. Who takes care of me too. His twinkle so much resembles yours. You are missed.

I feel so sad for you, that you found yourself in that place of hopelessness. I can’t imagine how awful that must have been. You took a nap, and you never woke up. We didn’t see it coming, but oh how we all wished we could have told you to just hold on.

I heard this song a few months ago. I was driving in my van, thinking about all of the people I know who are alone. Who are lost. The lonely house wife. The boy standing at the bus stop. My sister. The child being exploited. The one who feels forgotten. The one who might be left behind. Sometimes it seems to be too much! But, then, at that very moment, this song came on the radio. And I just wanted to share it with you. It really ministered to me.
I want to also say this. You don’t have to go it alone. When my dad became depressed, and everything in our family life seemed to be falling down the drain- whether it was because we were told not to, or we felt that way; we didn’t talk about it. Few people knew what was going on. I can’t even count the number of people who were so in shock when my dad died. “We didn’t even know there was anything wrong. We would have called him, met with him…” You don’t have to be afraid. Talking about your depression, or someone you who you know and love isn’t going to be some admonishment of failure. It sometimes takes a little courage, and I know you have it! Please- talk to someone.

Courage, also known as bravery, fortitude, will, and intrepidity, is the ability to confront fear, pain, risk, danger, uncertainty, or intimidation. …