for Xavi

 I vacillate between being ecstatic and bathing in my bliss that I am actually, seriously, getting everything I ever wanted in my life - and actually, seriously, not believing that any of it will last and we are all doomed to tragedy and misery and unfathomable, un-redeemable loss and heartbreak.  

I think it's natural, at least for me. It's not a bad thing. Of course it's unpleasant to have those doom thoughts, those catastrophic thoughts, those feelings that accompany those thoughts. But at the same time, I'm an empath, and so many people are living their doom, their tragedy, their catastrophe right now, this very minute, and I can't ignore that. I can protect myself to the best of my ability, I can give it to God, I can realize the limits of my influence and responsibility. But I will never be someone who can live life just imagining and believing that everything is rosy. It's not, and actually- that's okay. "Life's gonna hurt but it's meant to be felt." 

In many ways, I have gotten really skilled at appreciating what I have in my life, not taking things for granted, being present with my blessings and beauty in the world and being kind to myself/ congratulating myself for things. Wow! I'm who I am, and that doesn't always feel like enough, but more often than not it feels right. At the very least, it feels like I have no (or only few) apologies, and isn't that pretty amazing?!

I have worked on things -- at my own pace and paying attention to my own comfort level. I have read books, slowly, that teach and speak to me and allow them to permeate my mind and soul. I carry the language of books and songs with me as I interact with myself and others and share what I learn with those I care about, letting them decide if what I share is meant for them, too. 

I curate my parenting style on a daily basis. I remain open to change. I remain open to myself in addition to my child. 

I anxiously await my new child, Xavi. I have no idea what he will be like, and I cannot wait to find out. I don't know what our relationship will be like. I can't know that; I can only know what my relationship is like with Nina. My relationship with Xavi will reveal itself to me. My prayer is for patience and peace in the midst of chaos and uncertainty. 

I still worry that Xavi will not come. I worry he will be hurt. I worry that him being hurt will shroud all of us in unimaginable heartache that will never go away. I worry about the tiny soul that already never came, and wonder who they are, and if they are a part of Xavi or someone totally separate. 

I think the worry seems so unacceptable sometimes that I don't let myself think or feel the next step, which is admitting to myself that I actually can survive. Maybe I don't want to imagine surviving something so awful. That makes sense. Who would want to imagine that? But by not imagining the survival part, the eventual empowerment, we're just left imagining the tragedy part. That's not really fair. 

Xavi, until you arrive (and beyond), I will keep doing all the things I can to love and take care of myself. I know that's what you need. "You are me and I am you. Every one of us is worthy." 

Beautiful Grief

Parenting and grief are both common human life experiences, and many of us experience them simultaneously.  And yet, there are universal aspects of these experiences that no one ever tells you about ahead of time or talks much about as you go through them.

As you walk each of these paths, you experience the same range and diversity of emotion that you did before becoming a parent or a griever. Of course, so much changes emotionally and practically. Life is never “the same.” But I personally never thought much about how after losing a very close loved one and/or becoming a parent, there would be a lot that did stay the same. I continued to experience laughter and joy even during the rawest periods of grief. I continued to experience moments of deep depression and hopelessness even during the most joyful times of parenting. In both cases, I continued to worry and/or berate myself about things that I would have thought would have been too trivial or pointless for me to concern myself with as a new parent focused on my child or in the midst of fresh grief: things like how many carbs I was consuming, what other people thought of me, where my career was headed, where and when I was going to enjoy my next cup of coffee.

Anxiety is big in both experiences, especially if you’re already predisposed to being anxious.

Guilt is big in both experiences, especially if you think your emotions aren’t “properly” lining up with the experiences at any given time. Like I said, joy & lightheartedness during grief and depression & resentment as you parent the beautiful child(ren) you always dreamed of having.

Anger. Irritability. Guilt over being angry and irritable.

The need for solitude or even isolation. The need for connection. Not knowing what you need.

Feeling the weight of the world on your shoulders and wishing no one expected anything of you. Other times, feeling intense gratitude for your life roles and responsibilities and clinging to them, even defining yourself according to them in extreme ways. Sometimes switching between these two mentalities several times a day.

It’s all normal. It’s all hard. It’s everything my Dad experienced as a young father grieving both of his parents who died within a year and a half of one another.

It’s everything I experienced as the new mom of an infant when my Dad died. Though not identical experiences, our young adult grief became one more thing we had in common, added to a list of traits and experiences that was already substantial.

We heard similar well-intentioned and unhelpful (hurtful, invalidating) “advice”:

“Life is for the living.”

“Think of all you still have to be grateful for.”

“You have your kid(s) to focus on. You have so much of life ahead of you.”

“Your parent(s) is in heaven, no longer suffering.”*

*Yes, my father’s parents dealt with suffering, as all humans do. Yes, my father dealt with suffering and had health issues and chronic pain. But none of the three of them died as the result of a terminal illness. All three died of sudden heart attacks. Every life involves suffering, and their suffering ended because their lives ended. But these were not merciful endings to long and painful illnesses. Even if they had been, telling a grieving individual that their loved one is no longer suffering can make that individual feel as though their own suffering in grief is of less concern or does not warrant being discussed much further. Telling a grieving individual that their loved one is in heaven does not strive to understand and validate the living hell of the griever. Not to mention, even the most religious or faith-filled bereaved person may be having their doubts about the afterlife and/or experiencing anger towards God – also completely natural and not something to try to talk them out of. (Especially not at the wake.)

Growing up, I learned a lot about grief and depression from my Dad. Because of this, one particular piece of advice that I was able to immediately count as ridiculous nonsense was the one along the lines of, “Your dad wouldn’t want you to be sad.” I knew, and still know, beyond a shadow of a doubt, that my father would honor and empathize with any and all emotions I felt. He would not want me to deny my feelings, avoid them or hide them at a cost to myself. He would understand. He would be in pain with me. I grew up understanding that pain is real, and what is real must be honored.

I was aware of some of what I was learning and internalizing about grief and pain from my Dad; some of it I wasn’t. One particular lesson I didn’t fully understand until recently was about faith, and I don’t think my Dad necessarily knew he was teaching it to me, or that I would find so meaningful in my adulthood: I saw him allow himself his doubts. I saw him embrace faith when it was authentic and challenge it when he needed to. I saw him get angry at God and angry at the church, not always at the same time. I saw him consistently encourage and uplift others who were feeling connected to God at any given time, and approach those who weren’t with understanding and a lack of judgment, encouraging them to reject any shame or guilt imposed on them.

Essentially, I watched my Dad live with humility. What I learned from this was that faith and spirituality are fluid, dynamic, and meant to be engaged with authentically and with a spirit of vulnerability.  My father demonstrated vulnerability to me on a daily basis as he raised me and as we fostered a more equal type of friendship in adulthood.

When I say vulnerability, I do not mean weakness. I mean strength. I mean courage. I mean empathy. You cannot be truly empathetic to others without engaging your own vulnerability. Learning how to be vulnerable is what has allowed for and strengthened every one of my relationships, including the one with myself.  

This doesn’t mean that it hasn’t been painful to be vulnerable. It is painful. There are many times that parts of my internal system fight against this pain and will do almost anything before willingly embracing it or trying to learn more about what it’s trying to teach me. I pull away from loved ones.  I get angry at loved ones (and everyone else). I get angry at myself. I pull away from myself. I think I hate myself. I think I am weak. I feel hopeless and helpless about the future. I start to want to give up.

I know that my Dad also experienced this inner turmoil. I know because I saw it with my own eyes, sometimes with eyes that were too young to make accurate sense of what I was seeing. 

Of course this hurt me. Of course it did.

In addition to growing up understanding empathy and the value of passionate authenticity, I grew up scared. I grew up confused and sad. I grew up feeling fiercely protective of my father, while also being angry at him for making me feel that way.

I cannot and will not say that my childhood and adolescent anxiety disorder was a result of growing up witnessing the pain my father experienced. It is just not that simple. What I can say is that I was terrified of losing my parents, my Dad in particular. I had nightmares about their deaths. I was convinced my Dad would die of a heart attack in his 50s, if not sooner. I felt abandoned and alone even as my parents loved me with all their hearts and provided me with all the safety and security a child deserves. I loved them back with all my heart and was afraid of this love. I was afraid of how much I needed them.

Now, as the mother of a daughter and soon-to-be mother of a son, I am the one who is needed. I am afraid of how much I love my kids, but it’s not the same type of fear. The fear has evolved. At its core, it’s still about being afraid to lose or become disconnected from what is so precious to me. But my understanding of parental love has deepened with each passing day of being a parent, and I have found that the way I love my daughter and soon-to-be son drains fear of much of its power. The fear is still there, but it doesn’t get nearly as much of a say. I am too busy loving. (And losing my sanity.)

What is hardest for me as a parent is not knowing how my own emotions and behaviors are impacting and will impact my kids. Depression and grief during the pandemic have been especially challenging because Nina is always with me and sees my entire day, day after day. The amount of pressure I feel to not be depressed around her now, and to combat potential postpartum depression in a few months, is almost unbearable.

I shared this pressure with two best friends recently, on a day when I could barely pull myself out of bed all day and wasn’t buying my own excuse that it was the pregnancy keeping me there. I felt like I was trying to hide from Nina that day so she wouldn’t see my pain, but I wasn’t being entirely successful, and I also felt deeply guilty for passing off childcare to my husband and mother that day without explaining what was really going on with me.  I told my friends:

If I ignore her because my brain can’t formulate anything, I feel like that will fuck her up. If I try to force myself to engage with her and I end up getting moody or snappy with her, I feel like that will fuck her up.

M: Do you think your Dad fucked you up? I mean, honestly, maybe sometimes - or you had to get through some shit, but are you permanently fucked up because of your Dad’s depression? Or are you a more compassionate, understanding person who gets it. And empathizes with people and doing your absolute best the way he did?

Me: I think it made life harder for me and there are residual effects but when I think of him, I think of love.

This is the best and most precious gift I’ve received in my grief: that love reigns over my memories and continued experience of my father. I think a part of my fear of losing him was being afraid of the anger I might feel toward him once he left me. I thought I would be angry at him for not taking better care of himself, for not prioritizing his health, for abandoning me when I still needed him so much. For missing out on the rest of my life. I didn’t know if I could bear feeling that anger toward him in his absence and was terrified that the anger and despair would overshadow the love I felt. I didn’t know how I’d be able to process that and if I would lose access to unconditional love as I tried to navigate those unknown waters.

I understand my younger self for being afraid. I do not blame her. I only wish that I could tell her that grief won’t rob her of love; if anything, it will set love on fire.

I understand if my Dad was afraid that I would be angry and broken once he left us and that I would fixate on the difficult parts of our relationship. I don’t blame him, and I have the same worries for my own kids. I only hope he knows now that my grief has not gone that way. (And that if it had, I know he would love me all the same, perhaps even more.) I only hope he sees the mom I am and knows that he is treasured by the generations following him. That we have learned from his example and have been inspired by his life. That I have been inspired to raise my children with the same courageous vulnerability with which he raised us.

My father’s full experience and demonstration of his humanity taught me to live unapologetically as fully human myself. My father rebelled against letting himself be put in a box. He was a down-to-earth Harvard-educated musician who played and enjoyed all kinds of music. He was a deep thinker and ruminative reflector who loved to laugh and be goofy. He was sentimental and enjoyed reliving the past with rose-colored glasses while also being grateful for his present and excited for his kids’ futures. He was passionately romantic and intensely serious but also read comic books and laughed at romantic comedies. He was an introvert who valued and needed his alone time while also being a gregarious, outgoing ham who loved to perform with his band and dance at weddings and parties. He could get very angry and intimidating but was ready to apologize and talk calmly shortly thereafter, almost always showing wisdom and insight into the other person’s point of view.

We are all subject to society’s messaging, labels and norms, including gender norms. But what I learned from observing the way my father lived his life and the way he raised my younger brother was that boys and men can and should be vulnerable and emotional. They can be affectionate and nurturing, kind and sensitive, creative and insecure, compassionate and humble. Boys and men can be willing to own up to mistakes, grow, apologize, learn, do better.

 

This message indirectly taught me about what girls and women are allowed to be, too: everything. I was free to be fully human. I could be angry, and opinionated, and strong, and challenging, and brave, and proud. I could love and value myself as I loved and valued others. Of course, I did not always act on this permission. But it was always there. And my Dad was (is) always there to remind me it was there.

 

When I say my grief has been and continues to be beautiful, what I mean is that it is real, the same way love is real. What is real and true is what is beautiful. There is nothing more real or more connected than birth and death. When I give birth to my son, he will arrive to us from the place where my father’s spirit still lives. My son will already know my father; he will, in fact, have been more recently close to my father than any of us on Earth. I look forward to seeing my Dad’s spark in my son’s eyes. I will work on believing that no matter what emotions I experience, no matter the pain that presents itself in my life, I will be the kind of parent my Dad was, one who feels things and inspires their children to do the same.

For Lolo

Sitting next to my gorgeous daughter on the couch as she watches Disney short films, with the ceiling fan gently whirling above us and a cloudy day visible through our "dining room" windows (even though this has been our family/TV room for a good long while now, I still can't think of this room as anything but the dining room it was when I was a kid), s-l-o-w-l-y sipping an iced mocha that I only sort of want but still appreciate, it's hard to know what my depression is all about. Simple, contented moments like these make me believe that everything really is okay, and that I don't need to live in such constraining fear and hopelessness. And yet, I know when I am next feeling depressed, I won't be able to truly access this moment in my memory, and even if I can access it, it won't hold the same meaning as it does right now. A shame. But that's why I write. It doesn't fix or change things, but it can be a reminder.

I gaze at Nina and know that the real reason I want this new baby to make it into our lives is because of her. Because of who she is, as her own person and what she is to us. She is remarkable and crazy-making and joy and magic, and I want more of her. I am greedy and insane and in over my head, head over heels in love. I want to only be accountable to myself and yet thirst to have even more Mom responsibility. I want it NOW and completely do not feel up to it. What is comforting this time around is knowing that even as I ache for more of her, and to re-experience what it was like to care for her as a baby and chubby toddler, she is absolutely enough for me and for our family. If she is our only child, what more could I even ask for. She leaves us lacking nothing... (other than uninterrupted sleep, a neat house, and our sanity: minor inconveniences).

And.

I hope this little nugget pulls through. No pressure, little guy (or gal... but I have a feeling...). I just hope you want to meet us. I promise you'll like us. You'll have a pretty cool (probably bossy) big sis, like I was, and a dad who will yell at you in Spanish, love you with his whole heart and brighten your days with his unpredictable bursts of genuine laughter. You'll get to live in a multi-generational home with a Nonnie who will make you feel loved and special every single day and will help keep your dear old Mom & Dad from killing each other when stress runs high. You'll have me for a mom... which I think you'll be cool with. I think I'll do you proud. I'm pretty goofy and I won't yell unless you do something REALLY bad; otherwise we'll just talk it out and I'll give you extra love because I'll know that's probably what you need right then. I'll get tired a lot but I won't make you feel like that's your fault. I'll find reasons to smile and songs to sing even on my hard days. I promise. Oh, I don't cook. But I prepare healthy snacks and sandwiches and eggs and macaroni and vegetables. And I know where the best take-out is. I'll let you have sugar in moderation. I'll read you millions of books. That's my absolute favorite thing to do with your sister, other than listen and dance to music. I'll let you have your own view of the world and won't impose mine on you unless I have to.

And someday, Nina and maybe-sib, I'll get a job and make some money and do something to help others outside of our family. I don't know when that will be or what it will be exactly, and I don't know if I'll really be any good at it at first.  But I earned my degree and that means something for the future. In the meantime, Dad will continue to take such good care of us and work really hard and we have to go easy on him because the world doesn't. 

We want you little one, but also understand it's not up to us, and that we will be okay if you decide to remain in our dreams. You're a beautiful dream.

Small Signs

January 2020

In Solution-Focused therapy, they talk about keeping an eye out for small (sometimes minute) signs that things are changing or improving. These signs are very personal and unique. Got me thinking about my own personal signs. 

-singing in the car- not wanting to skip past each song on my ipod

-turning music on at home and enjoying it

-finding and reading (even minimally) a good book

-packing myself lunch

-being able to choose not to eat something 

-working out

-even considering working out

-feeling less soul-crushed when having to make small talk with people

-fewer headaches

-thinking of small things I can do differently

-being more in the moment with Nina and enjoying her 

-not snapping at Galo as much

Begin Again, Again

I wrote this four years ago but apparently never posted it:

"I feel like God decided to teach me a lifetime of lessons all at once.  How to be a mother, how to grieve, how to live when such a huge part of me has died and another huge part of me has been born.  In a matter of months my identity and sense of self have changed in so many ways.  Not only am I new mom, I'm a stay-at-home mom.  Not only have I lost my Dad, I have lost one of my closest friends.  I have never known sadness like this."

Four years later, I once again feel like God is heaping my plate. Once again, I find myself surviving things I never thought I could survive, and it's only mildly empowering to discover I can. Yes, I'm surviving. Yes, I could be doing a lot worse. But that only goes so far in making me feel better.

Yes, I survived walking into my 12-week ultrasound appointment, alone, and finding that I really was actually totally alone. No tiny heartbeat to keep me company anymore. I survived the initial fear and uncertainty of what would have to happen next and what my body would do. I survived leaving the hospital, the same hospital where I gave birth and last saw my father alive, with a tear-stained face and walking to my car in the parking garage by myself and driving away without getting in an accident while sobbing guttural sobs. It's good to know I can survive those things, I suppose.

I can also survive a d&c procedure two days later and make it through Thanksgiving the very next day, and then hold myself up during my Godfather's funeral two days after that. I can do those things and still be a mom and graduate student somehow. The house is a mess and I am useless and barely can call myself a wife or partner, all of a sudden I'm back to drinking beer and eating sushi and consuming too much caffeine and sugar and oversleeping every morning, but yes, I'm surviving. I'm functional. Yay!

Just kidding. Not yay.

It's hard to know how to feel now. Mostly I feel a lot of nothing, except the desire to sleep. I feel angry sometimes. I say a lot of expletives in my head (and sometimes out loud). When I tell the story of November 2019 to myself, it is peppered with words I wouldn't have thought I'd choose, like, F**KING miscarriage, or F**KING funeral or F*** THIS SHIT.

So yeah, I guess I'm angry. Just a little. Just sometimes.

This morning, as Nina dragged her feet and took her sweet time putting on her boots and coat and hat and mittens, and it was already past the time I was "supposed" to be at my internship, and I 100% still planned to stop at Starbucks for caffeinated sugar, and hadn't packed a lunch for myself because I'm tired of having to feed myself, I realized... I've reached my limit. I think what I need is for someone to explain to me the parameters of the breakdown I'm allowed to have right now without inadvertently traumatizing Nina or dropping out of school. Any ideas, let me know.

Begin Again

November 15, 2019
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~
What a gift to be able to look back on my blog posts from five years ago, the last time I was pregnant! It's alarming to read such coherent, insightful, lovely, faith-filled words and realize I wrote them. I feel so endeared toward that 2014 part of me, so sweet, earnest, open-hearted and vulnerable. I wish I could talk to her, tell her how amazing and admirable she is, how blessed her child is and will be.

Life has certainly changed since 2014. In obvious, expected ways, and in completely unexpected ways that still leave my head spinning and trying to figure out what reality really is. Birth and death, death and birth. I guess there's nothing truer than that reality.

I can't help but think of all the ways I've changed internally as life has changed externally. My sense of spirituality has changed. That's one of the main things I noticed as I read my old blog entries. And while my initial impulse is to admonish myself, another part of me knows it makes more than plenty of sense that I have changed in this way, and I am not required to be ashamed of it. What is life for if not to evolve along with experiences? At this point in time, I view and interact with spirituality in a specific way, unique to how I have in the past. It's not indicative of how I will always engage spiritually, nor does it take away from or tarnish my past experiences of faith. I do believe I will always identify as a "spiritual" person, because that's just who I am. I continue to learn about grace and gratitude and deep, unconditional love and suffering and healing. God is still present. Now he is just alongside others with whom I identify and connect. Dad. I know Dad more than I know God, and that's just the truth. And now that he has merged with God and exists in that realm of Being, how can I not connect with him in a more profound, spiritual way that sometimes seems to overpower my experience of God? After all, I have known Dad on Earth, and gone from this Earth. He is the most real thing to me, and doesn't that absolutely make sense?

Throw in politics, misogyny, abuse of power and religious institutional betrayal and abandonment, and it's easy to understand my reasons for spiritually existing outside of "the church" - now, and perhaps forever. I am empowered to decide. I am empowered to love myself as God loves me.

In addition to my spiritual life, my intellectual life has changed drastically. I have both treasured and regretted my student status these past few years -- mostly treasured.  And now, I'm pregnant. Once again, I consciously (purposely?) place myself outside the norm. It's not that what I'm doing is so radical, just less common than perhaps it once was. I am in class with mostly 23-26 year olds. I'm already late to the party, and now my graduation present won't be a job, but another baby. Galo and I continue to play by our own rules, which I love about us. And I love about me, personally. And yet there's a part of me that questions my life choices and wonders if I've purposefully made things more complicated for myself while also being selfishly motivated. I've been living off my marriage since Nina was born, and now my self-sufficiency will continue to be delayed while I grow another human. And yes, another part of me does know how ridiculous that sounds. 

So far, this pregnancy has delivered its unique challenges while also delivering a unique sense of calm. I've dealt with anxiety, but I've also found some way to expect the best, which was not the case in my first pregnancy, at least not for a long time. I'm grateful I've come to this state of mind much earlier, and while I know I can't rely on it not changing, I will be thankful for it now. This time, I really miss alcohol and sushi (alcohol the most) and the loss of my coffee-based identity. I am less hyper-vigilant about my body "changing" since I am already far chunkier than I was when I began my previous pregnancy journey. I refuse to throw my back out in the second trimester and will guard with my very life against that happening again. I am less concerned with my skin, I got a fabulously easy haircut and some over-sized clothes, including a giant winter coat. I'm working out (sort of). I'm seeing a new therapist who is questionable at best, and not my beloved pregnancy-cheerleader, Amanda. Need to email her. 

I envision these next weeks and months with cautious optimism and enough experience to know that each step along the way is just that, a step: a period of time with symptoms and experiences unique to that moment. I will keep thinking of millions of baby names of all genders and allow myself to dream. I've been dreaming since I woke up this morning, except for the mind-numbing and soul-crushing moments of deadness that accompany the life of an intern.

I am a mother, a pregnant vessel, an intern, a writer of social work papers, a woman obsessed with Internal Family Systems Therapy and Self-energy who sings Indie Arie songs in her car, kitchen, and head at all times. I will eat ice cream sundaes when what I'm really craving is a beer. I will get through whatever lies ahead. 

Happy birthday, Dad

Before my Dad died, whenever I wrote or typed the words "my dad" I always used the lower case "d" for "dad." Since his death, I feel compelled to write "my Dad" in uppercase. I think it's because otherwise, I never have reason to write out Dad and see it written out that way. No more cards or emails written to "Dad." No more texts - not that we ever texted much. It's mostly the "Dad" of cards I miss.

Before my Dad died, I often worried about his death. When I say "often," I do mean often. At times daily. In the couple of years or so leading up to his actual death, I worried less. Not because my heart wasn't still worrying, but because I actively directed my thoughts away from the reality that of course, someday he would die. I came to the realization that constantly worrying and perseverating on that fact was doing nothing except making me miserable and negatively impacting our relationship. Therefore, I taught myself how to (for the most part) live in the moment when it came to our relationship. I focused on each new memory we were able to create together. I savored our conversations. I took emotional note of how grateful I felt to spend time with him and how our time together felt more positive once I let go of my fear and dread a little bit. Life had already been kind enough to allow certain essential milestones to occur in his presence; for one, he walked me down the aisle. That alone convinced me to loosen my grip on my fear and have a little more faith that maybe, just maybe he'd be around for longer than I ever dared let myself believe. I had always held on to so much doubt that he would ever walk me down the aisle when I got married. But he did. 

Then, he was there to learn I was pregnant. He was there on the other end of the line to hear me joyfully tell him it was going to be a girl. He was there when I threw out my back terribly during my second trimester to empathize and provide comfort and understanding about how awful daily pain can be. He was there in the hospital to greet Nina and introduce himself as Papa Paul. He was there to hold her and let her nap on his belly in the early months when I was so sleep deprived and needed my own nap on the couch, across from him baby whispering on his favorite chair. He was there to play the piano for her and sing to her. He was there with Mom to babysit so Galo and I could go out on date nights (as early as Day 6! Because we really needed some sanity, however brief!). He was there to go on coffee runs with me to Dunkins and sit in the car with the baby while I went to get our coffee so I didn't have to worry about lugging the carseat inside with me. He was there to beam with pride about her existence to family and friends, he was there to see me struggle with new parenthood and express empathy, he was there to worry about me when it seemed like I was really suffering. He was there to tell me to take care of myself. He was there to celebrate his first Father's Day as a Papa. He was there to plan a trip he really wanted to go on with Mom and asserted to me that even though the baby was very little, he deserved and needed to take this trip and we would manage until their return. He was there to buy the perfect onesie for Nina on that trip that said, "Mom needs coffee."  He was there to celebrate her first month of life, second month, third month, fourth month.

And then he wasn't. 

Here one day, gone the next. 

The flood of sympathies..."At least he got to meet your daughter," "You know he will always be with you," "He would/wouldn't want you to *fill in the blank*," "This is harder for your mother than it is for you," "At least he's in a better place"... At least, at least, at least. All true, all well-meaning. All knives to the heart.

I do know he is always with me.

I know you're always with me.

Before you died, when I was always worried about you dying, I made a number of assumptions about what your death would be like. One of the biggest assumptions I made was that once you were gone, I would never be able to tolerate hearing our favorite songs, church songs, or any song in the entire world that would make me think of you, which is most music that exists (or at least, any good music that exists). I prematurely mourned not only you, but music. I wondered what I would ever be able to listen to, how I would be able to live my life without the music I loved so much, without you. How I would ever be able to watch our favorite shows and movies. How I would be able to think of a Wonder Years quote or drink a cup of coffee without crumpling to the ground. How I would be able to go to any of the places we loved ever again.

I had no idea that the exact opposite would be true. That immediately following your death I would cling to your favorite music. That nearly three years later I would continue to listen to your favorite music on a daily basis, share that music with my daughter constantly. That that music would allow me to continue to involve you in my day-to-day life, that because of music you come with me to drop Nina off at preschool. You come with me to get coffee. You are present as I write papers for school or go to the gym to work on my health. When I'm feeling lonely I summon you instantly with the touch of a button as I turn on your music. I call it "your music" because even if it's not one of your absolute favorite songs, as long as it's an artist or even a genre that you enjoyed I feel you with me immediately. There seems to be very little difference between your spirit and the notes I hear.

I don't listen because I feel desperate to have you with me. Well, of course I feel desperate to have you with me. But that's not why I turn the music on. I do it because it makes me happy, because I truly enjoy it. And as I listen, I feel deserving of that happiness. It's not out of desperation to feel something that I choose to connect with you. There are many times I allow myself to feel nothing. I've been on this grief journey long enough to know connection with you is not always possible. Even though I know "you are always with me." The hard truth is, you are not physically here. I cannot see you, I cannot hug you, I cannot talk to you face to face. And just as it is so so so difficult at times to connect with God, to pray, to believe, to hope, it is also hard to connect my heart with yours. Not because I don't know where to find you - you are everywhere. You are everywhere for me even more than God is sometimes. But sometimes I just can't do it. I just can't be with you. And that's okay. I know you know it's okay. I know you know what it's like to walk through the world without a parent.

Nearly three years after your death, I am still singing at church. There have been some bumps along the way, but I am still singing. Every once in a while I have to stop and remind myself: Maria, you're LIVING DAD'S LEGACY. It can be easy to forget or brush off the magnitude of what I am doing. I am choosing to keep your legacy alive. No one is forcing me to. And based on my assumptions about what life after your death would look like, singing at church should be intolerable. And of course, it is painful at times. But it is far from intolerable. It is natural. After all, who I am is your daughter. Who I am is someone who is loved eternally and infinitely by you. The same could be said about God, but to be honest, until you died I didn't really understand what that meant. What did it mean that some Being, some Spirit, loved me unconditionally, outside of the boundaries of time and space? What did that even look like? 

Now, I know. It looks like your hand on my shoulder as I sing. 

Happy birthday, Dad.