You have to laugh
When Dad passed away, every memory was painful. The fact that I was now the sole owner of our shared memories was devastating. There would be no more, " Hey Daddy, remember that time..." where he could chime in and we could laugh together. That was what made every last recollection painful for the longest time.
As months-- and it took a lot of them-- passed, I noticed that instead of just being bitter about that those times, I could find them bittersweet. Now, 19 months out, I can even smile at some of them. I enjoy telling stories about Dad.
I feel like if they're honest, anyone who has lost a loved one will tell you that it hurts a whole lot more to not talk about them than it does to tell stories, to say their name and keep it alive.
Today is January 1st, 2017 and I woke up with a particular memory in my head. God knows if it will even be funny to anyone but me and those who really knew him and can picture his mannerisms but I'm going to tell it anyway.
The reason I woke up thinking about it is because it took place about this same time of year. My youngest nephew, Cade, has a birthday at the end of December and my sister had thrown him a party at a local restaurant to get everyone together to celebrate. I think it was his second birthday which would have been in late 2011/early 2012.
We had a bunch of tables lined up together to seat everyone and were eating lunch. I was siting at the further end of the table beside Dad, and the littles (who are now the bigs, talk about bittersweet) were playing musical laps-- jumping from person to person and soaking up attention.
Daddy had a touch of a cough and that had to have been one of the few times he didn't have what seemed to be an infinite supply of honey lemon cough drops in his pocket. (To this day, I still can't smell those without immediately thinking of him. Grief makes you nostalgic over the smallest things.)
I suppose it should be noted that I have never been accused of being the most organized person on the planet. I have good intentions, but well... One look in my purse/car/bedroom and you'd understand. That being said, it's not uncommon for my (usually HUGE, oversized, think "I'm sorry ma'am, that bag is too large for the overhead compartment") purse to be full to the gills.
And this particular day, with Dad's particular cough, my purse sat on the floor in between us.
As the party was coming to a close, we were milling about being social and goofy and it was then that my purse got kicked and the yellow plastic corner of some kind of packaging became visible.
Dad happened to look down, and somewhat excitedly and sounding relieved ask me, "Say, is that a cough drop? I could really use one." And he bent to reach for it as realization dawned on me.
I objected pretty quickly and nudged my purse out of his reach, feeling like an ass.
I told him no, that it wasn't a cough drop-- and I could have stopped there but my mouth kept going and while my brain shouted NOOOOOO in mortified, abject horror I found myself continuing to explain with, "...that's my birth control." And as far as I knew, Ortho Tri Cyclen was not a remedy for cold.
A pregnant pause. (What a fine choice of words, Dee.) And then he just said, "...Oh." and slowly withdrew his hand.
We quickly changed the subject to SOMETHING ELSE, DEAR GOD ANYTHING PLEASE, and the afternoon dwindled to a more or less uneventful end.
We were-- and still are, and forever will be-- a very huggy family so naturally it takes us a minimum of 2 hours to say goodbye. Pictures were taken, promises to see each other soon.
We loaded up the birthday boy's gifts and cleared the table best we could and filed out slowly.
Dad came to give me one last hug before we parted ways, and when I pulled back he squeezed me tighter and pulled back so I could look him in the face. I kissed his cheek and he looked me in the eye and told me he loved me. I told him I loved him too, and he pointed a finger at me and implored, "And you keep taking those cough drops!"
Yes sir.
Daddy and I, behaving and being, well, ourselves.
With the grandgirls.
And of course, with the birthday boy.
And hey, happy birthday Cade, though you hopefully won't read this until you're old enough to understand why it's funny. I love you.
As months-- and it took a lot of them-- passed, I noticed that instead of just being bitter about that those times, I could find them bittersweet. Now, 19 months out, I can even smile at some of them. I enjoy telling stories about Dad.
I feel like if they're honest, anyone who has lost a loved one will tell you that it hurts a whole lot more to not talk about them than it does to tell stories, to say their name and keep it alive.
Today is January 1st, 2017 and I woke up with a particular memory in my head. God knows if it will even be funny to anyone but me and those who really knew him and can picture his mannerisms but I'm going to tell it anyway.
The reason I woke up thinking about it is because it took place about this same time of year. My youngest nephew, Cade, has a birthday at the end of December and my sister had thrown him a party at a local restaurant to get everyone together to celebrate. I think it was his second birthday which would have been in late 2011/early 2012.
We had a bunch of tables lined up together to seat everyone and were eating lunch. I was siting at the further end of the table beside Dad, and the littles (who are now the bigs, talk about bittersweet) were playing musical laps-- jumping from person to person and soaking up attention.
Daddy had a touch of a cough and that had to have been one of the few times he didn't have what seemed to be an infinite supply of honey lemon cough drops in his pocket. (To this day, I still can't smell those without immediately thinking of him. Grief makes you nostalgic over the smallest things.)
I suppose it should be noted that I have never been accused of being the most organized person on the planet. I have good intentions, but well... One look in my purse/car/bedroom and you'd understand. That being said, it's not uncommon for my (usually HUGE, oversized, think "I'm sorry ma'am, that bag is too large for the overhead compartment") purse to be full to the gills.
And this particular day, with Dad's particular cough, my purse sat on the floor in between us.
As the party was coming to a close, we were milling about being social and goofy and it was then that my purse got kicked and the yellow plastic corner of some kind of packaging became visible.
Dad happened to look down, and somewhat excitedly and sounding relieved ask me, "Say, is that a cough drop? I could really use one." And he bent to reach for it as realization dawned on me.
I objected pretty quickly and nudged my purse out of his reach, feeling like an ass.
I told him no, that it wasn't a cough drop-- and I could have stopped there but my mouth kept going and while my brain shouted NOOOOOO in mortified, abject horror I found myself continuing to explain with, "...that's my birth control." And as far as I knew, Ortho Tri Cyclen was not a remedy for cold.
A pregnant pause. (What a fine choice of words, Dee.) And then he just said, "...Oh." and slowly withdrew his hand.
We quickly changed the subject to SOMETHING ELSE, DEAR GOD ANYTHING PLEASE, and the afternoon dwindled to a more or less uneventful end.
We were-- and still are, and forever will be-- a very huggy family so naturally it takes us a minimum of 2 hours to say goodbye. Pictures were taken, promises to see each other soon.
We loaded up the birthday boy's gifts and cleared the table best we could and filed out slowly.
Dad came to give me one last hug before we parted ways, and when I pulled back he squeezed me tighter and pulled back so I could look him in the face. I kissed his cheek and he looked me in the eye and told me he loved me. I told him I loved him too, and he pointed a finger at me and implored, "And you keep taking those cough drops!"
Yes sir.
Daddy and I, behaving and being, well, ourselves.
With the grandgirls.
And of course, with the birthday boy.
And hey, happy birthday Cade, though you hopefully won't read this until you're old enough to understand why it's funny. I love you.
Comments
Post a Comment