Missing Daddy

It’s been almost a year since I lost my Dad.  It was a day much like this…warmer, beautiful blue sky with white wispy clouds overhead.  Sometimes, I can’t believe it’s been a year.  Other days, I think that maybe it never happened.  But it did.  My friends who have walked this walk before me say that the second year is the hardest…because people forget and you are alone in your grief.  Frankly, I’m not sure I could be more alone some days, but I won’t say she’s wrong until I’ve lived the 2^nd year.  Another friend told me just weeks after I lost Dad that grief was like the waves of an ocean…sometimes washing gently over your feet, and other days, so strong it knocked you down.  I know that’s true now.  Especially as I stand pumping my gas and find myself suddenly crying because it’s at this moment that I remember that Dad was the one who taught me how to calculate my gas mileage by hand…before the cars began doing it for us.    A silly thing, but powerfully nostalgic.

I find it interesting that I’ve spent the last 15 years living in a different town, state, or even continent than my parents, but Dad’s presence and influence in my life was and remains palpable.  Because of his loss of hearing in the last years, we rarely talked on the phone, but I knew he was sitting behind Mom, listening, waiting for the update.  It was after he was updated that he often sent me letters of encouragement or an e-mail to comment or celebrate some small victory with me, or my children.   I loved the evolution of Skype because we could at least see one another, even if we didn’t talk much.   When we were together, Dad was full of information…about politics, the politicians themselves, taxes, religion, the church, always something controversial.  I’d like to think he saved those topics for us, his family, but he didn’t.  He was a talker and had strong opinions about everything, and shared them with everyone.   Sometimes it drove me crazy, but often it drew me.  Even now, I can hear him talking as I watch a news broadcast, or a political debate.  This same thing often pains me because I long for more of his commentary.  Other times I’m relieved that Dad isn’t here to witness some of the travesties of 2011.  Mostly, I’m still surprised that he is the first one I think of when I have a strong opinion or want someone to talk something over with.

I still miss Dad’s sense of humor.  Even as he lay in the hospital bed, in the middle of our living room, Dad teased.  He accused me of stealing Reeses cups from a dying man.  Apparently, Mom had told him that this “gift” of miniature reeses from a friend was put in MY suitcase to take back to Africa.  This was a lie, but I had, in fact, eaten most of them.  What good is chocolate if not to comfort the grieving?  And he didn’t like them anyway. 

Dad did like grits and banana pudding.  He ate more grits than any one person should eat in his last weeks.  It was the only food that he really still liked when his appetite began to go.  Every friend of my parents brought over a banana pudding in those last weeks, too.  I LOVE banana pudding.  So did Dad.  One evening, he asked for a bowl of pudding.  My sister scooped it up and my mother walked by and said, “Alison, eat the cookies out of that bowl.  Dad doesn’t like them.”  I’m still not sure if Mom thought Dad didn’t like the cookies, or if she was afraid he couldn’t digest them, or if it was her own little joke on Dad, but, as directed, I gobbled up all of those cookies as fast as I could.  As my sister began to feed Dad the pudding, he said, after a few bites, “Where are the cookies?  Give me a big bite of cookies!”  My sister said, with a deadpan expression, “Alison ate them.”  Dad chuckled and asked why in the world would I eat his cookies?  Had I no compassion?  With mouth agape, I tried to explain what had happened, but he just giggled.  I got him another bowl of banana pudding WITH cookies.  Today, I can’t make banana pudding without crying and I don’t eat it.  Maybe I will again one day.

I miss my Daddy.  And like the waves of the ocean, a beautiful, blue sky day washes over me and brings back a world of memories and sadness, and goodness, too.   Maybe one day, I’ll be able to enjoy the blue sky and eat a bowl of banana pudding and celebrate the joys of those last days with my sweet Dad.   Until then, I’ll cry through the grief, and be grateful for his sense of humor, and eat a Reeses cup.  Too bad it’s not THOSE that I can’t eat anymore!