To the person I was ten years ago today,
Today is the worst day of your life; I get it. It is also the beginning of a new normal, although it will take some time to get there. You feel a lot like your life is over.
It’s not. It’s forever changed.
But you will make it.
I remember that person so well. Sitting in the family room, trying to figure out what needed to happen first. It was somewhat robotic, to be honest, making arrangements, figuring out the logistics of a funeral and sitting Shiva. Dealing with work, time off, food, cleaning, and stuff.
Stuff.
It was all stuff.
Looking back, it was the ‘stuff’ that helped get us through that time. Without the ‘stuff’, there would have been no reason to get up in the morning.
Losing a parent is life changing at any age. I think of who I was before it happened and I wish more than anything I could remember the feeling of being free. Of not knowing the ache that would find a permanent home in my heart.
I would tell my younger self that the days and weeks following would be a blur and yet are forever etched in my mind. The people who were there and those who weren’t. Some things you forget.
Some you won’t.
But you will live.
You will be okay.
There are people who continued to be a part of your life and those who left- some mutual partings and others a surprise.
Friends who were lifelines. Family who made you laugh. Loved one who helped you breathe.
I would tell myself the calls would continue and then they would stop. The days would go on and you will wonder how. Life goes on- whether you’re ready or not.
Why didn’t the rest of the world stop with yours? How could people just live their lives as if nothing had changed?
Everything had changed.
And yet, here you are. Ten years later, you’re here.
And you’re surviving.
You will be okay.
Life looks different today than it did a decade ago. You will talk about him every day. Your students will know his impact on your life. You will let him into every aspect of your life because losing someone doesn’t mean they never existed. Denying a memory is worse than the hurt from loss.
You can never erase the impact someone has on your life.
And you shouldn’t.
You will spend the day finalizing the eulogy you have been working on since it became evident time was not your friend.
You will welcome trays of food and friends who call.
You will cry in the middle of the day for no reason and you will feel the weight of this loss in random inexplicable ways, as if the world continues to betray you.
Some days you will miss him so much it hurts to breathe.
Some days you will laugh at a memory and feel him surrounding you with love.
Some days you will be angry that he’s gone. That he was taken from you. That you weren’t able to have him in your life longer than 36 years.
You’re angry every single day, but some moments it’s palatable.
You will see a Cadillac and miss him.
You will glance at a man and do a double take.
You will have breakfast and random people will come up to you and share a car story or a joke or a memory and you will cherish that, and then it will hurt.
You will have a great day at work and want to call him. Some days you will call, and then you remember.
Still. 10 years later, you do that.
You will keep his number and name in your phone. Some things you can’t bear to erase.
You will hold into every piece of paper with his handwriting. Every voice recording. Every story.
You will embrace every memory shared because it reminds you of the impact he had on everyone around him.
You will make his favorite dinner and laugh at the memory of how he put ketchup on spaghetti noodles. It’s still gross. No matter how much time has passed.
You will connect with students who have lost a parent in a way you couldn’t have before.
You will publish books and be successful at work and take care of yourself because that’s what he taught you to do.
You will do everything in your power to help your mom and respect the life given to you.
You will cheer on your sister and her amazing accomplishments and know how insanely proud of her he would be.
You will watch your mom get up and move forward every day knowing her heart is shattered and the love of her life is gone. That will motivate you.
You will be okay.
You will laugh with her and remember the amazing moments and reflect on how hard it’s been to move on.
But you will move on.
Because in those last days, in those last discussions, you promised you would.
And you keep your promises.
You will have good days and bad. Sometimes you don’t know why you’re in a funk, but you need to let yourself be there, feel it, and move forward.
You will realize the actions of others, even unintentional will cause waves of grief to wash over you.
Two years later, four years, seven, it will happen. A lot.
But those waves will calm.
And pick up again.
A cardinal will hang around the birdfeeder and you will smile.
You will make Hamantashen with his recipe and you will feel him there. Telling you not to use so much flour.
You will have an issue with your car and curse the fact that he can’t help you.
You will read the car manual because you hear him telling you it’s important.
You will look at pictures and memories and listen to music that he loved and you will cry.
But you will live.
You will be okay.
There are things he will never see. Things he will never do with you. Moments he has missed. Life accomplishments he can’t celebrate.
Those hurt.
People will try to say the right thing. “He is proud of you. He is watching you. He knows all you have done.”
It’s not the same.
You will be angry.
But you will live.
You will be okay.
Because ultimately, that’s our choice. We can live in grief or we can try and create a new normal.
Sometimes those new normals will change again. It’s a process.
I always hated that.
Process.
Like if I completed the steps, I would somehow be okay.
That’s not how it works.
But you will be okay.
Give yourself time.
Listen to the voices you know have your back.
Smile at a father and daughter eating together.
Appreciate the moments things ‘feel’ normal.
Be truly happy and don’t feel guilty.
Your dad loved you and taught you to thrive.
And that is why you will be okay.
But today the waves are coming.
And that’s okay.
I’m hugging you. I’m listening.
And I’m okay.
