Dad was pretty adamant that he didn't want to live at an assisted living facility. We tried to persuade him. We pointed out all of the good things about it - people were there who were his own age, there were lots of activities to do to occupy his time, and, most important to us, medical professionals who had knowledge to help him that we...well, that we just didn't. But still Dad didn't budge. He argued that the room he would live in was too small. "It would barely fit a twin-sized bed," he said stubbornly. He worried that no one would visit him. He was in no mood to be social and mingle with other residents. He just wanted to be near those who loved him most.
I remember talking to Dad about the Sunrise place one afternoon as we sat outside watching the kids play basketball. "You know, Dad," I mused out loud, "at least it's not called Sunset." Dad laughed and agreed. It became an inside joke between us after that. Heaven forbid Dad go live at a place called Sunset. ;)
Though at that time I knew we were on the downhill slide with Dad's health, I didn't realize that our prayers that when his time came to pass on it would go quickly would be answered so soon. Within just a few weeks of that conversation in my driveway, I was at the side of his casket mourning his death.
Over the past year as I have grieved, sunsets have taken on new meaning.
Each beautiful sunset reminds me of my dad. As the blue of the daytime sky fades into twilight and shimmering bands of gold, tangerine and crimson wash across the western sky, I think of Dad and his words, "It's not goodbye, it's see you later."
Here I sit, exactly one year later, full of the same feelings that are still so fresh, but are yet becoming more familiar. There are few bonds that are as close as that of parent and child, and the missing half of the physical presence of my dad leaves my heart aching.
I have an emptiness inside me that has left me doing some things robotically. This past year has been, hands down, the hardest of my life. Even feeling inspired to write blog posts is lacking, knowing that the one who was the most vocal about how much he loved reading my blog is gone.
I thought the year anniversary of Dad's passing would feel just like yesterday, or the day before, or six months ago. But a year feels heavy. A year is significant.
I made plans today to do my normal things - take care of my kids, go to work, prepare for upcoming activities, and, most of all, I was determined to keep my intense sadness to myself. June 5 is a hard day for me, but of course it is a normal day to most of those I associate with. In the end, however, I decided I needed to be patient with myself and give myself the room I needed to just be. I cancelled after-school plans and instead sat in the sunshine while the kids played basketball and I read and re-read a text from my dear friend Jen McBride:
Your feelings are what remind us of eternal blessings and temporal heartaches. Anniversaries, birthdays, holidays are all a little sadder because someone is missing.
She's right. Missing my dad makes my heart ache like nothing I've ever felt before, but it is just temporal. The sunsets in our lives are precursors to the brilliant sunrises - the eternal blessings - that are just waiting for us.
Love you, Dad. You make me smile.
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Posted By Erica to Barfuss Barometer at 6/05/2015 09:19:00 PM
