October. Again.

This part of the year sucks, on so many levels.

(As if midterms and papers and general stress wasn't enough,
my heart aches for the dad who should still be around. I miss him.)

Prayers, please.


Edit::

Okay, let's expand on that a little more.

October is hard, because the anniversary of my dad's death is not a single event, as a car accident might be. His death, after all, was long and drawn out; he was dying for much longer than the moment he died. That means that October is really an anniversary more than just October 28. And if we're talking technicalities, my grieving began sometime in March five years before that, and the fact that I didn't even know he had died until the next day, or that the funeral was November 1. There are lots of reasons that the anniversary is a broad concept.

For some reason, I had it stuck in my head that four years ago, October 7 must have been a transitional day for my family. I have no idea if that's true or not, but it could be. This "random" day could represent the randomness of his sudden turn for the worse. I unexpectedly found myself coming home for lunch and staying home for the rest of the day. School became secondary to home life, and I skipped more days that month than were even allowed for in any other circumstance. I remember having to drive to Family Fare in the middle of the day to pick up a pain reliever for my dad because we had run out; driving past my high school to get there, with my mom's credit card and instructions on which type to get, was a moment of growing up. All of my peers were in English class or math class or doing homework in study hall-- and there I was, grappling with mortality, grief, and the inevitability of loss. And yet I had to do it with strength and dignity. Time blurs together, so I don't quite remember if it was before or after having to pick up pain meds, but I also remember having Pastor Todd come over to review the plans for the memorial service. I remember my dad was sitting in the big brown recliner, placed next to the stairs (why there?) with a chair pulled up alongside for Todd. My dad carefully went through all of his handwritten notes that he'd prepared for this very occasion-- scripture passages, songs, and other notes about who would do which parts--the family joke is that my dad would have even written his own message if he'd had enough time. I remember being there, watching that, being in a surreal state of mind. This couldn't really be happening, after all.

And yet it was. I'm still haunted by the physical appearance of my dad's body near the very end; the deterioration to a state of infancy. The transparency of his skin, the sparse gray hair, bones prominent in his arms and ribs. The single white tshirt he wore underneath a sheet while sleeping long hours in the hospital bed in the living room. Hospice coming in regularly, speaking in low tones about how long he may or may not have left.

And then there are the humorous moments; playing settlers of catan at the dining room table for hours with my siblings as we watched and waited together. It was a time of bonding-- I don't know that we've ever spent that much time together since.

But there were heartbreaking moments every day, signs of death at every hour. The realization that my dad would no longer eat another meal the day my mom had to quietly explain to my grandma that no, dewey would not be having any soup. The courage it took for people to come and see us, to see him. Terminal restlessness-- a euphemism for literally going crazy.

Time is a strange thing. I'd never been so convinced of it until after that month. Time crept by, it was standstill. All life on earth stopped while our family waited silently for death to perform his duty. Never has my life seemed to be so disproportionate time-wise. Those three or four weeks might as well have been years. How to explain it? Time is not regular intervals, something that is quantified. It is only qualitative.

I suppose that's what October is still for me-- a time that stops and waits for death to come. I find myself anticipating the 28th with some trepidation. Each day is a pilgrimage to the memories I have of my dad-- both of his healthy life and of the struggles in my family during his sickness.

I hate the remembering--but I must. I can't look away; it's intrinsic to who I am. Which is why I must keep telling my story. It's why I still hunger for this to resolve itself in a book. Maybe then my anxious writerly heart will have some sense of peace and closure. After all, I have been convicted to write a book for the last ten years-- ever since I was eleven years old and found out he was diagnosed with cancer. Even then, I knew that it would be a story to tell.

Ultimately, though, it comes down to this: I miss my dad. He was an incredible person, and I wish I could have loved him better. So much I failed to appreciate until now--even years later-- when I see what kind of gifts and inheritances he gave me. An appreciation for the outdoors and a passion for ministry are just a few of the things I carry from him. I long to hear his voice again, to embrace him in a big bear hug, to spend a few hours playing card games--like we used to. I miss my daddy. I especially miss him when I anticipate the future, and wish I could talk to him about my dreams and goals. I know without anyone telling me that he'd be proud-- but I wish I could hear it from him.

I miss you, dad. I will not forget.



Betsy