Letter #3: The one in which I was bitter

Hey Dad,

I think a big part of the reason why I’m having such a hard time letting the grief go is because it’s mixed with guilt. I spent my life being bitter and angry towards you. There was that time you tried to convince us that mom was doing things she shouldn’t be doing when we were just little kids. I can remember being in the car with you when you insisted on driving past that mexican restaurant she went to every week with her girlfriends just to make sure her car was really there. It became almost a weekly ritual for us, didn’t it?

There was the time when we were painting my room, I think I was 10, and I said I wished mom was here helping us and not at a PTA meeting and you said “You must really be stupid.” because I actually believed she was where she said she was, while you were convinced she was lying. I don’t know if I could ever forgive you for the anger and hate that came out of your voice at that moment.

I wish I could look back on those years with good memories. That I could say I grew up with a good idea of what marriage should be, and not a good idea of what it shouldn’t be. I blamed you for popping the perfect family bubble I had in my mind. You put doubt in my mind about my parents and I never forgave you for it. Because of you, I was more aware of the screaming that happened. More aware that you guys never kissed. Never slept in the same bad.

You taught me to constantly be on the defense the second you opened your mouth. To inwardly brace myself for what you were about to say. And I’m sorry that happened. I know you did the best you could.

It’s taken me until now to realize that you were grappling with your own demons, something I wish I could have concluded before you died. I’m sorry for the way I treated you. I didn’t understand what you must have been going through mentally to think all of those things were okay behavior to exhibit around young children.

I’m sorry I wasn’t thankful for any of the good stuff that we did have growing up. I know you worked hard to make sure we didn’t want for nothing.

I wish we could have been better. I’m trying really hard to forgive us both for it.

Love you always,

L

xx

The one that isn’t really a letter…

Hey Dad,

This isn’t a letter really, I’m reading this book, that is basically essays an advice columnists wrote for people that sent in questions, and one essay in particular stuck with me. A person, Bewildered was their name, sent in a letter asking for advice on how to deal with his fiance’s mother passing, because he felt that saying “I’m sorry” didn’t feel like enough.

I never thought someone could wrap up what I’ve been feeling these past months, but she did it so beautifully and so truthfully. I really just want this here forever for me to look back on. It hits home what I talked to you about yesterday.

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” It will never be okay, and yet there we were, the two of us more than okay, both of us happier and luckier than anyone has a right to be. You could describe either one of us as “joy on wheels” though there isn’t one good thing that happened to either of us that we haven’t experienced through the lens of our grief. I’m not talking about weeping and wailing every day (though sometimes we both did that).

I’m talking about what goes on inside, the words unspoken, the shaky quake at the body’s core. There was no mother at our college graduations. There was no mother at our weddings. There was no mother when we sold our first books. There was no mother when our children were born. There was no mother, ever, at any turn for either one of us in our entire adult live and there never will be. 

The same is true for your fiance, Bewildered. She is your joy on wheels whose every experience is informed and altered by the fact that she lost the most essential, elemental, primal, and central person in her life too soon. It will never be okay that she lost her mother. And the kindest, most loving thing you can do for her is to bear witness to that, to muster the strength, courage, and humility it takes to accept the enormous reality of its not okayness and be okay with it the same way she has to be. Your mother-in-law is dead, but she lives like a shadow mother in the woman you love. Make a place for her in your life too.”

Letter #2: The one where I realize that life can’t stop because of you because it needs to keep going for you…

Hey Dad,

Sorry I’ve been gone for a while, things at work have been hectic to say the least, but I’m sure you knew that already.

These two things have been on my mind lately…

I keep thinking about how my kids will never know you. They’ll know of you, and they’ll only know what I’m able to tell them. They’ll never know how you smelled. They’ll never know what your voice sounded like. They’ll never get to be embarrassed by your weird, awkward jokes. They’ll never see your ridiculous dance moves. Or the way you insisted on hiking your shirt up to your shoulders whenever you had to pull your pants up. You’ll be just this faint person that I tell them stories about sometimes. They won’t be able to buy you “#1 grandpa” mugs, or take you to grandparents day at their school. And you’ll never get to hold them. It’s not fair. And I don’t think I’ll ever be okay with it. I’m going to bring this new life into the world, and you won’t be there for it.

The other thing I keep obsessing about is the day I get married. Every time I think about it, I have to keep myself from bursting into tears. You never knew this, but once in fifth grade, a girl told me you were too old to be my dad and that you’d never walk me down the aisle. She was a bitch really, but to 10 year old Leanne, that girl devastated me. That became my mission, “get married so my dad can walk me down the aisle.” Looking back, it was a bit silly, considering I really had no control over the matter. But  up until the day I left to go home for Christmas, it was on my mind. I knew you weren’t feeling well more days than not lately, but I didn’t expect you to be gone so soon. I thought we still had a few years for this. And we’ll never get to have that father/daughter dance either. I had the song picked out and everything. It was going to be “My Girl”. Do you remember when we danced to it at the father/daughter dance in high school? I had a grass skirt on and you had that silly straw hat? I remember being embarrassed then because you insisted on singing out loud along with it. But I secretly liked it, and really wanted a redo when I got married.

I think I’m having trouble picturing having these next big moments without you here. I always took it for granted that you’d be here for everything. That you’d get to hear that phone call when I got engaged, and again when I found out I was going to have a baby. I can’t wrap my head around the fact that you’ll be missing for all of it. I think part of me has stopped living since January, because I don’t want my life to progress without you to witness it. But I’m starting to realize that I need to live for you. I need to go on adventures, and I need to keep growing, because you don’t get to anymore.

I want you to be proud.

I hope I make you proud.

I need you to be proud.

I promise to write sooner next time. I love you always,

Boogie

Letter #1: An introduction of sorts..

9/5/2014

Dear Dad,  

    Our last time physically together plays on a continuous loop in my mind. I was so stressed about missing my plane and I let those negative emotions ruin the last time I ever saw you. You only wanted to come see me off and tell me goodbye and I was too blinded by my anxiety to process it. I’m already starting to forget your voice. I tried to call your cellphone a week after you passed, but you hadn’t set up your new voicemail machine yet. I searched through my voicemails hoping there was one from you from a while back, but nothing. I think I can hear you in my head, but I don’t think the voice is quite right. I can’t even recall if I told you I loved you as I was running to get in the airport and catch my plane. I hope you knew. You spent Christmas in the hospital. And when they released you, I thought you were on the mend. That it was just another small bump in the road that you’d recover from.

    But a week later, without a warning, you were gone. Six days into 2014 and twelve from your birthday. What happened? Why did the hospital release you if you weren’t okay? Did you realize what was happening? Or did it blindside you? Were you scared? Did you feel alone? Did it hurt? Were you tired of fighting and happy to let go? Or did you put up a fight one last time? It’s been nine months but everyday I wake up and what happened hits me straight in the face.

    I have all the questions I want to ask and nothing I can do with them. I know after I moved away from home, knowing my aversion to talking on the phone, you said I could write you letters. And you passed before I could start, so I decided to write you letters in the form of blog posts. About things I never said, things I hoped you knew, and things I thought I never could tell you. Some of the things might surprise you, but I need to get it out. I’m not even sure I believe you can see these wherever you passed to, but I hope, in some way, you can.

I’ll be writing again soon.

Love you always,

Boogie boo