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.

Almost One Year

I wrote this post in 2016 but did not publish until now (Dad's birthday, 2018).
***

I haven't written since February.  Why is that?  Well, it's no one reason.  Certainly, I've been busy with my now-almost-seventeen-month-old! Now a walker, budding talker, avid explorer, reading-and-music-obsessed little bundle of energy and laughter.  She gives "oo-mas" (kisses/besos) to all her dollies, animal friends (partial to monkeys, horsies, birdies, penguins, Minnie Mouse and Corduroy), and even some of her favorite books.  Her favorite foods are turkey, cheese, Goldfish, yogurt, corn, beans, bananas, berries, macaroni, tuna, chicken sausage, and the occasional French fry. She is joy and love and learning and snuggles and singing.

But I have also been busy with other things.  Grieving.  Journeying towards (but not linearly) acceptance-- of my loss, my new life and my continuously emerging self.  Trying to balance embracing my emotions and knowing my limits.  Avoiding putting things into words, written or otherwise, and instead just being.  Feeling. Remembering. Listening to Dad's favorite songs and artists.  On his iPod: his church and "Through the Years" playlists.  On Pandora: Carpenters, Bread, Janis Ian, 60s & 70s, James Taylor, The Beatles, and Guess Who radio stations.  In My Life.  Fill the World with Love.  Love is Forever.  Turn, Turn, Turn.  I've occasionally been able to watch childhood home videos and some of his favorite TV shows (Wonder Years, Felicity), even my wedding video with him playing piano and singing for us, accompanying me on Thousand Years for Galo, dancing with me, and recording his "congratulations" message for us with Mom.  I've considered watching some of our favorite movies but haven't yet for lack of time, not for lack of wanting to or feeling uncomfortable with the idea.  I've looked though photographs-- older ones are easier, the more recent they become the more difficulty I have looking at them.  But I still look at "memories" on Facebook and my Google drive and no longer avoid the pictures of him holding Nina, or the pictures of Nina where you can see his hands or his shoulder.  On Father's Day I made a whole digital album of old pictures of us with Dad and really enjoyed doing so.  (I'm dreading passing the one year mark and knowing the "memories" from the previous year after that won't include him.)

But writing or coherently praying?  That has felt more overwhelming.  I've been able to write one (incomplete) letter and one card to Dad.  The letter was on the five month anniversary of his death and the card was for Father's Day. Those brief writings did bring me a sense of healing and closeness each time.  But now we're zeroing in on the one year anniversary of his passing.  I haven't yet arranged to get the tattoo to honor him that I've been planning the whole year, having identified my 30th birthday in October as my hard deadline. I haven't journaled or blogged.  I haven't purposefully or specifically asked God to ease my suffering or help me come to accept this deep, entrenched pain of loss.  Does this mean I'm not ready to accept that it's really been a year?  That I don't really believe he's never coming back?  That one of these days I won't walk into my parents' house and see him sitting in his chair or at the computer listening to music or sipping coffee?  Or go into church and see him sitting at the organ in the choir loft?

In many ways, it feels longer than a year.  It feels like I haven't been able to see or talk to my Dad in forever.  Painfully, he feels like a part of my past.  Not because I don't think about him every single day or still feel his presence in my life, but because his physical presence in my life-- his voice-- feels so far away.  I've ached for it for almost 365 days now.