Dad,
It's wrestling season again. Paul and I are going to see OSU's home opener tomorrow--I think it should be good, but I'm bummed that NATO is out for a while. Paul went to Hayes' pre-season overnight camp today; he said they have upwards of 50 guys this year! I know you'd be so jazzed about the growth of the program. I already have the state tournament for 2018 on my calendar so I can be sure to request off work(s) that weekend. Wrestling season makes me feel closer to you even now because I *know* where you would be if you were here, and I so rarely get that knowledge of what you would be doing. I wish you could be here for another wrestling season, I don't feel like you taught me everything I need to know yet. But Paul is filling me in on some things, and it's not like I don't know other people to ask. I'm excited to work tables again for the home tournaments, but not sure who's gonna run my clock. Not sure I trust anyone else. What did you do before you had me anyway? Not sure if I ever said thank you for taking me to the state tournament in 2011, but thanks. It really did change my life. I'm so grateful for all the memories I have of us traveling to tournaments and spending our Saturdays throughout the winter in gymnasiums around Ohio. Remember the year I was obsessed with the sea salt and cracked pepper pretzel pieces and you got me a bag every weekend? Anyway, I miss you, as always, and love you, as always. Talk Soon. Love, Marie
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Sometimes moments of triumph are obvious. When your team scores the winning run in extra innings, when you check your final grades and you did in fact pass everything, when you reach for a diploma, or hear your name called for an award.
But then, there are moments when you stop, just long enough to look at your life and think damn, I did it. I made it through the first year without my dad, and more than just surviving--I have lived. I am doing it. I am suceeding. This subtle moment of acknowledgment is the greatest sense of accomplishment--of triumph that I have ever known. A year ago today was a normal day. Until it wasn’t. I had gone to class, eaten lunch, done some homework, avoided other homework, and I called Lily and was trying on different outfits, trying to pick one for my date the following evening. My phone did that little *boop* sound in my ear to let me know another call was coming in, and when I looked, it was my mother. Now I don’t know how the body, or mind, or spirit, or whatever it is that knows certain phone calls contain bad news knows, but it knew. So with a pit in my stomach already, I answered the phone only to be told that my Dad had had a heart attack and was being taken to Grady, hopefully where they could stabilize him for transport to Riverside. My Aunt and Uncle were on the way to pick me up. We never made it to Riverside--he never made it to Riverside. When we got to Grady, we were greeted by an overly chipper nurse who pointed me in the direction of the worst thing that has ever happened to me.
In the hours that followed, I remember prayers, and hugging in that tiny room in Grady, I remember yelling and crying, I remember being certain I could never leave that room, because how could I walk out into a world where my father no longer existed? I remember being told we needed to eat, getting McDonalds, going home, calling a few people so they knew, and going to bed. In the days that followed, we were met with an onslaught of visitors, some who collapsed into my arms on our front porch seeking comfort in the arms of the girl who had lost the most important person in her life.We were brought and endless supply of grief casseroles and desserts.Family poured into town, meetings at a funeral home took place, and a memorial service happened--one with standing room only in Asbury. In the weeks that followed, I made arrangements with professors, and set up meetings with administrators, so that I could finish what coursework needed to be done to graduate on time. I fended off unknowning, ignorant twenty-somethings and their “I didn’t know him [and I don’t really know you either] but I can’t even imagine what you must be going through”. My first day back on campus, I walked into my acting class where we were practicing our final scenes and watched a scene about a young woman who had just lost her professor dad and was at his memorial, talking to one of his students. No, I did not make this up. I found out that there was a group on campus for students who had experienced loss, and thinking it was a bunch of hooey, I forced myself to go anyway, where I was met with the most welcoming “Hey!” ever, and the feeling that I was not alone. Under the worst circumstances, I met the people who would become my best friends from college. In the months that followed, I fell into a shadow of the woman I was, the woman my Dad had raised me to be. I stopped going to class, I stopped talking to a lot of people, I stopped getting dressed, I stopped getting out of bed. But I received constant, encouraging, supportive e-mails from two professors in particular saying “come see me, I need to know you’re alright; I need to know you are eating”. Here’s where the story gets semi-good. I did get out of bed, I did take my finals, and six months after the worst tragedy I had ever experienced, I graduated with my Bachelors in Chemistry. One month after that I had one job, and another month later I had two.I started writing, I joined a writing group, I started going to open mics, I found comfort in the few twenty-somethings I knew that also knew grief. And now, I am soon-to-be-published. Now, I am getting ready to move out, now I have been promoted at both of my jobs, now I get out of bed, I shower, and I “go get ‘em girlfriend”. Most days. One of my favorite things I’ve read in regards to grief is this, “Grief is a nasty game of feeling the weakest you have ever felt and morphing it into the strongest person you will have to become”, Windgate Lane. I am still morphing. A year ago today, I sent my Dad a Facebook message. I told him that I didn't have any homework and wasn't working in the call room that evening so he should come over to Granville and take me to Olive Garden (since he got me the pasta pass). If you knew my Dad, you can probably guess that he checked with my mom and then they, and my brother James drove over for dinner. We went to the Olive Garden in Heath; our waiter was brand new, and messed up just about everything, making the whole dining experience hilarious. After dinner, my dad dropped me off at Gilpatrick, and my family went home. That was the last time I saw my dad.
The thing about having a "last"of something, without knowing it's the last, is that you replay is over and over again. I don't know the last words I said to him, because I assumed there would be so many more conversations, decades and decades of conversations. I've spent a lot--probably too much--time thinking about what I would say or ask if I could talk to my Dad again. "Are you proud of me? You were the best Dad; except when you missed Legally Blonde because you thought it was a dumb musical; except just kidding you were still the best Dad. Do you really think I can do this? I love you. Are you sure it's okay that I don't take up your research? I'll take care of them, don't worry." But here's the thing, I always come back to this. My Dad and I left nothing unsaid. So I know the answers; I know he knows and knew everything I could possibly think to say. A year later, I am still distraught when I think about the fact that he will never walk me down the aisle or get to be a grandpa. But a year later, I am still comforted by his voice in my head saying "Go get 'em girlfriend!" and "Finish strong!". And because I did not know that the last time was the last time, we had a silly dinner over pasta. Things don't always come full circle. As someone who fixates on closure and likes for things to have a beginning and an end, a right or a wrong answer, this concept is particularly difficult for me.
The night before my Dad died, the Indians lost the 2016 World Series in game 7. It was raining--I know this, because I remember asking if he thought they would have to postpone. I almost wish they had so my Dad didn't have to have their loss be the last baseball game he ever saw. I remember trying to be a gracious loser because the Cubs had a longer no-world-series-win streak than us. I'm sure there's a real term for that but I won't pretend to know enough about baseball to know it, or to care enough to look it up. In any event, they lost and I was bummed, but not heartbroken, because after discussion with my Dad and brother and most people who actually know baseball, we all just kind of assumed that 2017 would be Cleveland's year. It would be okay. We would come back around to this. Well the next day my Dad died. People have a lot to say about "that first year". Some people who know nothing of grief even ~know~ how important that year is. For whatever reason, my brain focused on the fact that a year from then, the Indians would win the World Series and my Dad would be so hype and all Angels in the Outfield kind of thing. But then they lost before they even got to the World Series! They lost the series before the series before the World Series. (we're still being patient with my basic baseball knowledge). And I was crushed. Not because I'm really into baseball (obviously). But because it would never come full circle. I would never get that comfort, that closure that would come with them winning the World Series after having lost it the night before my Father died. Part of me wants to call up Corey Kluber and ask why he couldn't get it together for my Dead Dad. C'mon man! We have closure to acquire! Well, I do. And it depends on your extraordinary athletic ability! Well I didn't. If I did call Corey Kluber I'd probably ask him to get drinks on Saturday because he's hot. Anyway, I've gone a long way to say that we don't get closure. Things don't often come full circle. And had the Indians won, my Father would not be any less dead, and my daily life would go on as it does now. But it would have been a nice small circle to have completed. When your father passes away young, people tell you how "strong" and "brave" you are. They mean well. They are the same well-meaning people who tell you how "strong" and brave" you are for sharing your stories of sexual harassment or assault. For making it through. What they often fail to realize, or acknowledge, is that aside from our strength and bravery, we are angry, we are exhausted, and we had no other option.
This picture came up on my news feed from a year ago today and the first thing I thought was “wow, look how happy I was”. Wanna know why I was so happy? I was a senior in college taking classes I really enjoyed for the first time in a while and I had a career path and plan to get there that I felt truly passionate about for the first time in a while. I had just started dating, I was having fun and going to class and seeing friends. In this particular picture, I am thrilled because I was so sure of a future where Hillary Clinton would be the next president. I had just voted for a woman in my first presidential election (on the same day I had my first Pap Smear—a fact I like to throw in because I think it is poetic even if it is oversharing). I was so sure of what I was doing and what was coming next and I had so little to worry about. If you’re still reading this, you’re probably cringing because you know full well what happens next. But I have something that will fix the weird face you’re making. I don’t know that I will ever be happy in that way again, because being happy the way I was, was just part of having no idea how bad things can get. But in spite of having been there and back, my laugh is still almost always the loudest in the room.
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AuthorYou can check me out under "About Me" Archives
May 2018
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