Dear Dad,
Who knows why I'm putting this in my ancient blog? Why I'm posting it to the internet. Shouting into the void and simultaneously preserving this forever. I guess it's the easiest way to get my thoughts down. Typing can be easier than writing, and it helps me get the words out faster without editing myself. I think about you every day, and I feel like I have more questions than answers, Something moved me to fire up the blog and write, so here I am.
It's been a little over seven months since you've been gone. Thinking about the days and months and years leading up to that point feel like a temporal version of the Stations of the Cross. I don't know where the Beginning of the End actually sits in that timeline, but Christmas feels like a good starting point. The last Christmas that we all spent together. Did the tree fall down at all that year? If it didn't, was it a sign that we missed? My birthday dinner in Newark: Mom usually covers the check, but you insisted on using your card that time. Did you know that that was the last birthday dinner you'd spend with me? Then the actual dates come to mind. Your birthday, March 18. We didn't go out to dinner, but I came down to the house to hang out with you. What I thought would be a day of reading the newspaper and half-listening to whatever nonsense you were watching on Syfy became the day that we freed that bird from the range hood in the kitchen and got it out of the house. Right before I left, you said it was a "happy bird-day." That was the last time I saw you up and about and walking.
April 25: I got the text from Mom letting us know that you had been taken to the ER and were about to be admitted. It was all routine to me. The thought never crossed my mind that day, or even the day after, that this was the last time you'd go in to the hospital. Later on I would try to remember what the weather was like that day. Was it warm? Did you think about how the sun felt on your face or how the breeze smelled when you took your last breaths of fresh air? Did you know?
I got worried when I heard you weren't eating. I brought you Oreos and pistachios and said it was something to snack on because I knew you hated the food there. I was really begging you to eat something, but I had no other way to say it. The days wore on. I went on my work trip to Colorado, and came back with stories of how beautiful the resort was. A few days later, I told the story of how my friend's car got locked into a parking deck in Trenton and how the fire department hot-wired the gate so we could get it out.
May 21. A Monday. By this point we knew that things were bad. Really bad. Unfathomably bad. We had already discussed what we would do if your heart gave out. The crazy-slow dialysis was working, but not all that well. I finally spoke up at work about what was happening. Mom said that she was going to be meeting with the medical team the next day to discuss next steps. I heard a voice somewhere, clear as a bell, saying "you need to be with her tomorrow." I drove back into the city, parked on 42nd Street, and grabbed my laptop from the office. I still have the receipt from the parking meter. A memento of the last day that things felt somewhat right in the world.
May 22. A grey Tuesday. I don't have to tell you what happened because you were there. You were there until you weren't. Mom and I went home. The pharmacy left a message on the machine letting you know that your prescriptions were ready for pickup. Mom called them back to let them know you had "expired." She couldn't come up with a better word for what had just happened an hour or two earlier. It's still hard to find the words to explain that you're not here.
After that, the dates don't matter. I don't know when we held your viewing. I don't know the date when we buried you in Kansas with the rest of your family. I went back to work too early. I went out to State College for a week on-campus for grad school. I was angry and raw and tired and heartbroken and sad and scared. I kept up with therapy. I got on meds. I took a leave from school. I don't know if I want to go back. I guess you know all of this too. But if you know all of that, you know everything else. You know all of my questions. How do I get those answers?
I think about your story. I know some of the beginning, most of the middle, and all of the end. But what did it all mean? What was it all for? What am I supposed to do to make all of your suffering worth it? Was it all even about us, the girls you left behind? The things that we all went through...some days I feel bad about things I did or didn't do. Other days I'm angry at you for the same things. How do I reconcile all of this? What do I do next? When does it stop hurting? Why does it hurt so much?
All of these questions, and I know you don't have the answers.
I miss you, Dad.
Love,
-Amber
Who knows why I'm putting this in my ancient blog? Why I'm posting it to the internet. Shouting into the void and simultaneously preserving this forever. I guess it's the easiest way to get my thoughts down. Typing can be easier than writing, and it helps me get the words out faster without editing myself. I think about you every day, and I feel like I have more questions than answers, Something moved me to fire up the blog and write, so here I am.
It's been a little over seven months since you've been gone. Thinking about the days and months and years leading up to that point feel like a temporal version of the Stations of the Cross. I don't know where the Beginning of the End actually sits in that timeline, but Christmas feels like a good starting point. The last Christmas that we all spent together. Did the tree fall down at all that year? If it didn't, was it a sign that we missed? My birthday dinner in Newark: Mom usually covers the check, but you insisted on using your card that time. Did you know that that was the last birthday dinner you'd spend with me? Then the actual dates come to mind. Your birthday, March 18. We didn't go out to dinner, but I came down to the house to hang out with you. What I thought would be a day of reading the newspaper and half-listening to whatever nonsense you were watching on Syfy became the day that we freed that bird from the range hood in the kitchen and got it out of the house. Right before I left, you said it was a "happy bird-day." That was the last time I saw you up and about and walking.
April 25: I got the text from Mom letting us know that you had been taken to the ER and were about to be admitted. It was all routine to me. The thought never crossed my mind that day, or even the day after, that this was the last time you'd go in to the hospital. Later on I would try to remember what the weather was like that day. Was it warm? Did you think about how the sun felt on your face or how the breeze smelled when you took your last breaths of fresh air? Did you know?
I got worried when I heard you weren't eating. I brought you Oreos and pistachios and said it was something to snack on because I knew you hated the food there. I was really begging you to eat something, but I had no other way to say it. The days wore on. I went on my work trip to Colorado, and came back with stories of how beautiful the resort was. A few days later, I told the story of how my friend's car got locked into a parking deck in Trenton and how the fire department hot-wired the gate so we could get it out.
May 21. A Monday. By this point we knew that things were bad. Really bad. Unfathomably bad. We had already discussed what we would do if your heart gave out. The crazy-slow dialysis was working, but not all that well. I finally spoke up at work about what was happening. Mom said that she was going to be meeting with the medical team the next day to discuss next steps. I heard a voice somewhere, clear as a bell, saying "you need to be with her tomorrow." I drove back into the city, parked on 42nd Street, and grabbed my laptop from the office. I still have the receipt from the parking meter. A memento of the last day that things felt somewhat right in the world.
May 22. A grey Tuesday. I don't have to tell you what happened because you were there. You were there until you weren't. Mom and I went home. The pharmacy left a message on the machine letting you know that your prescriptions were ready for pickup. Mom called them back to let them know you had "expired." She couldn't come up with a better word for what had just happened an hour or two earlier. It's still hard to find the words to explain that you're not here.
After that, the dates don't matter. I don't know when we held your viewing. I don't know the date when we buried you in Kansas with the rest of your family. I went back to work too early. I went out to State College for a week on-campus for grad school. I was angry and raw and tired and heartbroken and sad and scared. I kept up with therapy. I got on meds. I took a leave from school. I don't know if I want to go back. I guess you know all of this too. But if you know all of that, you know everything else. You know all of my questions. How do I get those answers?
I think about your story. I know some of the beginning, most of the middle, and all of the end. But what did it all mean? What was it all for? What am I supposed to do to make all of your suffering worth it? Was it all even about us, the girls you left behind? The things that we all went through...some days I feel bad about things I did or didn't do. Other days I'm angry at you for the same things. How do I reconcile all of this? What do I do next? When does it stop hurting? Why does it hurt so much?
All of these questions, and I know you don't have the answers.
I miss you, Dad.
Love,
-Amber
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