I figured that many things would crush me with emotion. Maybe it would be pictures of him. Or the random items of his I'd see inside the house. Or symbols of him. His many baseball caps. His Orioles and Ravens clothing and memorabilia. His workshop tools. Or maybe, as Rick Springfield once sang about, My Father's Chair.
But in the three plus weeks since his death, I've been amazed at how little these items have impacted me. I looked through his hats and put several on. I've walked through the house and looked at many bits and pieces of my dad's life over the years that I'd seen many times before.
Even looking at photos was relatively easy. There were several boxes that we looked at, with random snapshots going as far back as the 30s and 40s. Rather than feel sadness, I sat amazed at how damned good looking my dad was. Only photos of Christmas really got me. My dad loved Christmas. And we had some great ones.
What nobody says is that grief seems to come when you're least looking for it, and in the oddest of places.
But in the three plus weeks since his death, I've been amazed at how little these items have impacted me. I looked through his hats and put several on. I've walked through the house and looked at many bits and pieces of my dad's life over the years that I'd seen many times before.
Even looking at photos was relatively easy. There were several boxes that we looked at, with random snapshots going as far back as the 30s and 40s. Rather than feel sadness, I sat amazed at how damned good looking my dad was. Only photos of Christmas really got me. My dad loved Christmas. And we had some great ones.
What nobody says is that grief seems to come when you're least looking for it, and in the oddest of places.
I went with my mom to dinner a couple of days ago at Cracker Barrel. The check came and my mom said "I've got it." She pulled out a gift card that I recognized. It was good at a variety of restaurants.
"Those are a great idea, because you can mix and match restaurants and you aren't tied down to any company."
I realized I'd had that thought when I picked that same card out. It was my last Father's Day gift to my dad. It's amazing how many thoughts can flood through you in a short period of time. I flashed back to that Father's Day and going to Kroger to buy him the gift card. A rushed purchase for a guy who "didn't need anything". But I remember specifically selecting this gift card because it was the only one that had a combination of restaurants close to their home and ones that would allow them to get out and travel a bit. He'd been in so much pain that my parents trips out had been closer and closer to their house. It was my way being practical and hopeful at the same time.
"Those are a great idea, because you can mix and match restaurants and you aren't tied down to any company."
I realized I'd had that thought when I picked that same card out. It was my last Father's Day gift to my dad. It's amazing how many thoughts can flood through you in a short period of time. I flashed back to that Father's Day and going to Kroger to buy him the gift card. A rushed purchase for a guy who "didn't need anything". But I remember specifically selecting this gift card because it was the only one that had a combination of restaurants close to their home and ones that would allow them to get out and travel a bit. He'd been in so much pain that my parents trips out had been closer and closer to their house. It was my way being practical and hopeful at the same time.
My mom noticed my face and asked me what was wrong. I explained that it was what I gave dad last Father's Day. Unspoken was that it would be the last time I would celebrate it as a son.
When we went to pay for the meal, the card wouldn't scan through the machine. Multiple swipes and nothing. Sadness turned to dark laughter as I wondered if the last gift I bought for dad was a bad gift card. It took almost 10 minutes for them to get it to work while they scanned it and typed it in, and tried multiple things. As I left I silently thanked Dad for the meal, and the opportunity to think about him.
It's been that way a lot in three weeks. A background line in a show ordering a doctor to ICU 5 is an immediate reminder of the exact same room my Dad spent his last days in. A song about romantic heartbreak on the radio that I've heard thousands of times suddenly easily transfers to the same emotions about my dad. Maybe it's just the proximity to the event itself. The grief doesn't feel real yet because the heart says "he'll be back, just give it time." So most of the triggers now are things that tie me to immediate emotions of the recent past. I suspect the milestones are going to kick my butt. His birthday is a month away. Then my anniversary. My daughter's a month after that. Then Thanksgiving, Christmas, New Year's, his wedding anniversary, and a whole year of reminders that he's no longer present for any of them.
My mom commented that you reflect on dad and realize how lucky you were to have him and have him for so long, but those blessings can be a curse because you've had something so good for so long that you don't know how to cope with it being gone.
Perhaps it's just getting through these little reminders that we eventually put a small healing barrier around the open wound of loss.
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