Waiting Up
Dear Dad,
It's been three years today since we saw you take your last breaths. Those moments were horrific and chaotic, and even though I was there and saw it, I recall it as if it happened to someone else. Even now, 1,095 days later, I don't entirely believe you are gone.
It's been a weird three years Dad. A lot has changed. Life goes on, as you know. Remember when you used to tell us Mom wouldn't tell us when you died? And when we got home you just wouldn't be there? And you thought this was hilarious? It still sometimes feels like that happened. I always expect you will still be there when I go home, waiting up for us, watching some terrible TV show and drinking a Michelob Ultra.
I have a confession to make Dad: sometimes I go days or even weeks without feeling sad. I get wrapped up in my own business and busyness, and I forget about the gaping hole in my heart and in our family. Then at other times it hits me like a ton of bricks...sometimes for days at a time.
We went home a few weeks ago. Chris was driving through Pennsylvania (where it was raining...it's always raining) late on a Friday evening. I was sitting in the back with Will. It was raining really hard, and I didn't want to distract Chris. But all of a sudden I had a thought about coming home and you not being there waiting up for us. I started crying and cried for about 45 minutes. I couldn't stop. I forced myself to pull it together when we got to Morgantown so Mom wouldn't notice something was wrong. And I heard you in my head saying, "Oh Sissy. You're fine."
Mom is visiting right now, and yesterday I came home from the gym to her playing the piano. (Oh right - we have a piano now. We inherited Chris's grandma's piano, and thank goodness Mom is here so someone actually plays it!) She was playing How Great Thou Art, and I stood in the hallway listening where she couldn't see me crying. She looked so sad and serious playing, and at that moment I really missed the levity you brought to our family.
I have a new job - I'm the Mayor's Chief of Staff. I regularly think of how proud you'd be. You'd be telling everyone I'm running for Governor or some other exaggerated version. And your grandson? My goodness you would enjoy him so much. He's fun and hilarious and never stops moving. I can see you chasing him around complaining that you can't keep up because you don't have any air.
We sold our Concord house. It was bittersweet because you helped us on so many projects there. We didn't live there for the last few years that we owned it, and it no longer entirely felt like ours. But you left your mark on it, Dad. Man there are about 150 projects we could use your help with in our house now.
The other day Beth asked me if it gets any easier. It depends on the day. I'm really struggling with this anniversary, Dad, more than I've struggled in a while. While it's been three years I feel like it's just finally sinking in. You would be the absolute last person to dwell on grief or sadness, and I try to remember that. You know Dad, we're all doing okay. We're all living and moving on. But damn it - it's not the same without you. It will never be the same. Time will pass, we will all keep living our lives, but you will always be here.
In my mind you will always be in that chair waiting up for me no matter how many years pass by. I got 37 years with you, and I grieve for me but also for my son who only got ten months with his Pap Pap. He won't remember how you lit up when you held him. He won't get to hear your stories and hear you sing to yourself as you feed the birds or wash the car. But I'll tell him all about it, Dad. And I'll try to do you justice. But my stories may be a little exaggerated. (I come by it naturally.) I may "Rick Jones" it often enough that he rolls his eyes. And when I say something is "dumber than a sled track" he'll wonder what the hell a sled track is like we always did.
I miss you Dad, and I'm grateful every day that you were my dad.
Love,
Sissy
It's been three years today since we saw you take your last breaths. Those moments were horrific and chaotic, and even though I was there and saw it, I recall it as if it happened to someone else. Even now, 1,095 days later, I don't entirely believe you are gone.
It's been a weird three years Dad. A lot has changed. Life goes on, as you know. Remember when you used to tell us Mom wouldn't tell us when you died? And when we got home you just wouldn't be there? And you thought this was hilarious? It still sometimes feels like that happened. I always expect you will still be there when I go home, waiting up for us, watching some terrible TV show and drinking a Michelob Ultra.
I have a confession to make Dad: sometimes I go days or even weeks without feeling sad. I get wrapped up in my own business and busyness, and I forget about the gaping hole in my heart and in our family. Then at other times it hits me like a ton of bricks...sometimes for days at a time.
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| I am so grateful for the times we got to travel with you and Mom. |
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| The first time you came to one of my races. I was so excited to have you both there. |
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| So you. I love this photo. |
Mom is visiting right now, and yesterday I came home from the gym to her playing the piano. (Oh right - we have a piano now. We inherited Chris's grandma's piano, and thank goodness Mom is here so someone actually plays it!) She was playing How Great Thou Art, and I stood in the hallway listening where she couldn't see me crying. She looked so sad and serious playing, and at that moment I really missed the levity you brought to our family.
I have a new job - I'm the Mayor's Chief of Staff. I regularly think of how proud you'd be. You'd be telling everyone I'm running for Governor or some other exaggerated version. And your grandson? My goodness you would enjoy him so much. He's fun and hilarious and never stops moving. I can see you chasing him around complaining that you can't keep up because you don't have any air.
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| Remember the first time you met Will? |
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| I have a bird feeder to carry on this tradition. |
The other day Beth asked me if it gets any easier. It depends on the day. I'm really struggling with this anniversary, Dad, more than I've struggled in a while. While it's been three years I feel like it's just finally sinking in. You would be the absolute last person to dwell on grief or sadness, and I try to remember that. You know Dad, we're all doing okay. We're all living and moving on. But damn it - it's not the same without you. It will never be the same. Time will pass, we will all keep living our lives, but you will always be here.
In my mind you will always be in that chair waiting up for me no matter how many years pass by. I got 37 years with you, and I grieve for me but also for my son who only got ten months with his Pap Pap. He won't remember how you lit up when you held him. He won't get to hear your stories and hear you sing to yourself as you feed the birds or wash the car. But I'll tell him all about it, Dad. And I'll try to do you justice. But my stories may be a little exaggerated. (I come by it naturally.) I may "Rick Jones" it often enough that he rolls his eyes. And when I say something is "dumber than a sled track" he'll wonder what the hell a sled track is like we always did.
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| A boy and his Pap Pap |
Love,
Sissy
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