4 Months now and I don’t miss you one bit less. In fact, some part of me, some small part that lived after I knew love but before I knew death is still waiting for you to come back. Maybe that’s what grief is - the inability for my adult self who is rational and has full command of intellect unable to come to terms with my self who is Ian’s age and who just wants love and companionship. I miss the daily banter, the play-by-play of our lives. Sure, I can engage in a bit of that with Alyssa at 9 and even with Ian at 4, but there’s just so much that’s lost without the shared experience of having stumbled through our 20s together. of having eased into our 30s and nearly blind into raising kids. Of finally having hit our stride not long before you got sick.
These 4 months have simultaneously seemed like an eternity and like a single moment. I was in the basement this evening gathering stuff up to pack for Disney and came across a box of your sweaters that Virgina must have packed up after you died. It was full of clothes you used to wear all the time. I pulled it out and smelled each and every article of clothing in there, hoping something would still hold the scent of you, I breathed really deep in anticipation, One sweater seemed like it might still have smelled of you. Or perhaps it was just wishful thinking on my part,
I think you would be proud of me over these 4 months. I know it was often hard for you to feel proud of me. I wore your dad’s mask so very often. He broke your trust so often and so badly. You deserved so much more. Since you’ve gone, I’ve kept things moving along pretty well. I got Alyssa into Tae Kwon Do and helped her navigate a crisis of confidence about two months in. I got Ian in another season of soccer. He did so well. He’s so enthusiastic. I got Ian and Emma in gymnastics on the gym bus. I got Emma’s shots. I got them all to the dentist. We weathered a nasty round of colds that knocked us out pretty well. We got family photos taken. We made it to The Feast of the Hunter’s Moon. We made it to Virginia’s for Thanksgiving. We have arrangements for Disney and Christmas in Charleston. With a huge amount of help from Virginia, we planned and executed your funeral, How I wish we never had to do that. We took bike rides and trips to the park. We geocached. I made it to parent-teacher conferences. I got Alyssa’s brownie troop switched so she could still be a Girl Scout and do Tae Kwon Do too. I even helped last week at a meeting. I have a decent chunk of our Christmas shopping done. I put a decent financial plan together. I got us down to Indy for a weekend with Becky and Andy. I could not have done half of this without the help of Kim & Alexis, Michael & Denise, Virginia, Sharon, Reggie & Judy, Becky & Andy and lots of other people.
Yeah, Alyssa’s been late to school 8 or 9 times, I forgot to help with spelling more often than I remembered, I owe Bethel a change of clothes for Ian, I need to balance the checkbook, I have too many stacks of paper on the dining room table I haven’t lost a single fucking pound, I don’t get enough sleep, I haven’t scanned very many of your journals, and Alyssa’s room needs some serious dust mite eradication. But we’re doing better than I thought we’d be, overall, in the letter I wrote the day you died.
As hard as I work, I can’t be both Dad and Mom to our kids. This is one of hardest the and saddest parts of losing you. Our kids still need you so much. I can be pretty compassionate, more so than a lot of fathers I know, but I still can’t be Mom.
More soon.
Love,
Jase
thordora
| 11-Dec-06 at 3:56 pm | Permalink
Gods, you make me miss the father that was-the father before, the one who never had to worry about all those little things. I remember him sitting and just staring, talking about all those tiny things my mother just did every single day. And how much he loved my mother, and how it’s just so not fair.
I haven’t cried those gut wracking sobs in so long, and it feels good to finally cry out the last of my anger and pain. My father brought me one of my mother’s scarf’s, and even 17 years later, I still held it against my face like a talisman, searching desperately for her scent, for her. 17 years is just as long and short as any other moment. That part never changes.
You’re doing so much better than my father did, I can tell you that much. You’re so much stronger than he was.
Venessa
| 11-Dec-06 at 4:34 pm | Permalink
A couple times a year John and I have the if-something-ever-happens-to-me-here’s-what-I-want-you-to-do talk. We hope to never use it. I often wonder what kind of dad he would be without me because he is so insecure in his parenting skills, even though he really is a great dad and he loves his girls to no end. I always tell him that I chose to have children with him and no one else because I am confident that he would be able to raise them without me. I really admire how put together you seem to be. Dentist appointments? Amazing. Your kids are lucky to have you, you must know that.
jase
| 12-Dec-06 at 10:06 pm | Permalink
thordora: What do you mean the father that was? Before your mom died? Did he somehow fundamentally change when your mom died? Just wondering.
Thanks for the kind words. I just need to take my health (weight) more seriously so I can continue to be strong for them.
Venessa: I’m really glad you picked the right man. From my own experience, I hope your if-something speech also includes “do we have enough life insurance”. Or maybe I already said this in a comment on your blog. I’m a broken record, I suppose. But it has saved my ass in a huge way. At least in that it’s allowed me to keep the same standard of living and have enough time for the kids. And thanks for the kind words.
thordora
| 13-Dec-06 at 8:36 am | Permalink
Part of all of us died when my mother did-you may notice that in your kids-there’s “something” that just isn’t there anymore. Maybe you can help that not disappear. I just remember feeling such a split, but then, my mother was pretty sick for a few years, so we knew what was coming. My childhood was fairly idylic, so it’s likely I’m projecting onto my pt.
Lately, I’ve seen my father again, watching him with his granddaughters. It’s such a gift. And I’ve been able to talk about my mother while talking to him about you, explaining to him how I now understand in some small way what he went through.
That’s a gift as well.