Writing has the power to immortalize a person in a fascinating way, I have learned. I’ve been reading my aunt’s book, Starting with Goodbye: A Daughter’s Memoir of Love after Loss, over the last few weeks, savoring every minute. The book is about my grandfather, my aunt’s father, about their relationship before and after his death, about my grandmother and my mother and uncle and other family members who shared in his life. And with every word, my grandparents are suddenly alive again, almost as present to me as if they were sitting down next to me, talking about the past and warming me with their love. I am blown away by their presence, reliving their mannerisms, their voice, their laugh, their very breath. All the while, I am also confronted with their death and the sadness I feel that they are long since passed and awaiting me in heaven.
Naturally, reading the book has brought up grief about my own father’s passing as well. I find myself many times still having to remind myself that he’s been gone more than three years, mostly because I see him in my dreams so often that it feels like he is still very much alive. In many ways, he is. I see him in the mirror sometimes and in the faces of my children. He reminds me he’s watching over us with a song on the radio or when I find myself repeating one of his favorite phrases. But now I long for him to be alive again, like my grandparents are in the book, and I realize that I never wrote about his death. I think I finally have enough distance from it to gain some perspective on the whirlwind that it was. He passed away so abruptly, I have to stop and remind myself that it did actually happen…
On Friday, April 24, 2015, I was on my way to Frisco, Texas, for AdvoCare Leadership School, a special conference I had to earn my invitation to. I was traveling by myself. No husband, no kids. Except the one in utero, Esaias. It was such a strange sensation to be traveling alone. No one calling out “Mommy!” every minute, no one to keep a conversation rolling, no one to interrupt my ever-wandering thoughts. So different from a recent all-family excursion to Boston earlier that month. My mom had taken care of Eden and Elianna while Alex and I flew from Boston to Barcelona to pick up a 10-day Mediterranean cruise to celebrate our 10-year wedding anniversary. We had then stayed a few extra days in Boston to celebrate Easter with my mom and have dinner with my dad and brother before flying home. I didn’t think Dad looked that bad; he seemed generally happy and relaxed to be with us. I was happy to share with him what we were going to name his only grandson, not realizing he would never have the chance to meet him, on this side of eternity anyway.
Arriving at the Dallas airport later that month, I got off the plane and began searching for a restaurant to fill my Patriots tumbler with some ice water. Luckily, there was a fast food place along the way to the baggage claim, so I stopped in for a quick moment. But just moments later, my full tumbler slipped from my hand and shattered on the tiled floor. Something in my gut just sank. The Patriots were my Dad’s favorite team, and the shattered glass before me just filled my soul with a dismal anxiety that something was wrong with him. I just didn’t know what it was yet.
To be continued…
The Art of Choosing True Life 