Happy Birthday, Daddy

Hi Daddy, Happy Birthday! This is the first time I've not been able to call and tell you that. I've always loved calling you for your birthday--you haven't ever been one for presents and hoopla, and you probably wouldn't even mind if people didn't mention your birthday, but you've always appreciated the calls and the thoughts. I've always loved hearing you say back, "Happy birthday! (For some reason, you usually wish it right back at us and I've always found that so cute and terribly endearing.) Thank you, Bibi. I love you." Some people think they can say those words too much, but I've never tired of hearing it. And I miss hearing you say it.

I miss hearing your voice. I miss different things at different times--your hugs, your smell, your smile, your laugh, your generosity. For the past couple of days, I've really missed hearing your voice. No one else has a voice (and adorable accent) quite like you. Oh, how I miss it. I cried last night, Daddy. At 1:30 in the morning. I laid in bed and cried. All I was doing was sharing a cute story about you and I even laughed and then suddenly I was crying. I don't tell you this to make you feel badly. Please don't feel badly. We're okay. We're doing well. Mark is so good to me, the kids are great. Just know that I miss you. I miss you so much that it hurts sometimes. It doesn't feel real that you're gone. And it's odd--I know it might sound strange, but I feel like we helped you die through hospice, so somehow it feels like we could bring you back again. How can it feel like that? I know intellectually, but I feel . . . it feels surreal, hard to explain.

I miss you especially today, it being your birthday. 73. It's too soon for you to have gone. Your Parkinson's has been so slowly progressing for so many years that when it progressed so quickly, it caught me off guard. I never in a million years would've guessed, this past summer, that you'd die by the end of the year. And yet you've been saying it for so long. I guess I was in denial. I cried yesterday thinking of how you must've known on some level. You walked back to the tennis courts to say "goodbye" -- that is heart breaking. I wonder about that. Did you cry? Did you talk out loud? How badly did it hurt? I know you were so down about not being able to play and garden and feel healthy. It was so frustrating to see things you've always enjoyed slowly being taken from you--your yard, your garden, your tennis, your computer games, your cards, your checkers. Parkinson's is so cruel. It's a thief. And watching it slowly rob you of hobbies that had brought you pleasure was painful, for you and for me. Because I love you and I've hated seeing you down. I know what it feels like to feel down and it's horrible. I've always quietly felt that we've shared that even though I know you probably wouldn't call it anything or talk about it much and I've ached for you.

I've been thinking about Kubler-Ross's stages of grief (because I'm kind of nerdy that way) and they are:

Denial
Anger
Bargaining
Depression
Acceptance

I've gone through denial for years. And I feel horribly about it. You've been saying that your body is dying for so many years. Looking back, I can see it. But at the time, I didn't want to see it. You've always been my strong, protective, healthy, active, wonderful Daddy. Why would I want to believe you were dying? I'm sorry for not listening to you more. I think I used to sort of wave it off and show you all that you could do. That must've been annoying. I'm sorry. I meant well. I know you know that. I'm your little girl. I believed you could do anything. Even as you lay dying, you would squeeze my hand with such strength it was hard to believe you were bedridden and really fading.

I don't think I've really dealt with bargaining. I know you've wanted to die, so I haven't felt a need to bargain. I guess in that way I've been supportive of your wishes even though it was hard. I haven't wanted to see you suffering. Not being able to feed you was painful (c'mon, we're Portuguese!) and doing nothing but give you morphine drops was difficult. It was hard to not know what you were thinking, feeling. Yet I'm so glad to have had that time with you and to have been able to care for you. I hope I did a good job. I know you'd tell me I have, no matter what. You've always been good to me that way. I love you so much, Daddy.

I keep vacillating between Anger and Depression. I guess I've experienced Acceptance, but maybe I haven't since it so often doesn't feel real. I don't know. But Anger and Depression keep rearing their heads for me. Sadness anyway. I don't call it depression because somehow I'm functioning, at least pretty well if not fully.

I feel a lot of anger. And that's new for me. I feel very, very angry. At what? At whom? I don't know. I'm being brutally honest here. I don't like admitting ugly feelings. I don't mind sharing with people that I've dealt with depression--there's no shame in that. But anger? That's new for me and it feels ugly. I'm trying to figure out what I'm learning from it. Maybe then it'll dissipate.

I'm not at all angry with you. I feel gentle toward you. Sometimes I feel angry when I see other people enjoying their Dads, but that's not their fault and I know that. Again, it's an intellectual knowledge that doesn't always reconcile with my feelings. Sometimes I feel angry when I see men in their 80s and 90s and 100s and up. I feel jealous and angry. I see so many things that remind me of you and I focus on them as happy reminders rather than getting bitterly angry and upset. I learned that trick from a book on grieving and I'm grateful because it helps.

I happened upon a video of you the other day. I didn't know what it was until I hit play. You, playing with our kids in the park and waving at the camera. I sat and sobbed. It startled me to see you so full of life and vibrant and talking and happy and smiling. I miss you so much it hurts.

Something that frustrates me, too, is that we're just getting into REAL home ownership--we have our first real house and big yard and garden. I've been excited to have you here, learning your fabulous gardening skills, having you coach us as we set up our grapevines, learning form you how to truly raise fresh, organic produce as you always have. People would visit us JUST to see your meticulously organized, beautiful garden. So, as we get into gardening here, I especially miss you. I've always thought you'd help us with this stuff. I want to grow things like you have--beautifully and with care. I hope we do it all justice as we do it. Always.

I've recently felt your presence. I've felt that you're proud of me, glad that we have rental property. I was standing in the basement of our townhouse (that YOU helped us finish) and I felt a surge of pride. From you. I haven't ever felt right about selling our townhouse. I'm glad we have it. I'm glad we have rental property. Just like you've always said. I love feeling that you're proud of me. We're so grateful. You've helped us do everything we're doing, you know that? You've taught us, helped us, supported us. And we're making you proud, Dad.

You and I have a lot of quirky things in common, you know that? People are quick to say that Mom and I are alike (and we are in many ways), but there are sooooo many quirky qualities that you have that I have, too. I think we're both a little OCD--in a quirky, non-psycho way. We both enjoy the little things. We have simple pleasures. We love food, especially fish. I'd like to think I have the caring, compassionate, generous qualities you've always had. At least I hope I do. You are a role model. I know you haven't ever felt like one, but that's exactly part of the reason you're such a good one. EVERYONE looks up to you. EVERYONE. And yet, you don't even know it. You're that humble. You're that unassuming. You're that guileless.

You and I have always enjoyed having our birthdays close together. We're both Pisces. :) Growing up, it's always been fun--celebrating your birthday has always meant that mine is coming up. My birthday is in less than 2 weeks. And I'm going to miss hearing you wish me a Happy Birthday (on my birthday :P). I think that's going to be hard for me. I find myself really wanting to do things I've always wanted to do. There's something about the past few months, you dying, me missing you, that makes me want to DO things. Travel places. Enjoy life. Do things we've always talked about doing but haven't yet done.

I have some ideas for my birthday and I think we may actually do it. I don't want to be down in the dumps--I know you wouldn't want that. I want to feel good. I want to celebrate. You've always wanted the best for me. You've always worked so hard to give me the best. You've worked long and hard so that we wouldn't lack. You've always made sure we have money for things, from Pizza to College. You've always wanted us to have more than you've had. THAT is the model of a loving, generous parent. It's always been about not lacking. You'd give me the last bite of your favorite meal, just to make me happy. And you'd do it gently, lovingly, generously, with no resentment whatsoever. You'd do that with your money, your time, everything. Even in retirement, you and Mom have been nervous to spend money so that you don't "spend our inheritance." How amazing and generous is that?!? So, that lives on. You, your legacy, your kindness, your thoughtfulness for others, you continue to be the most amazing Dad EVER. I continue to know you love me. And I love you.

We're celebrating your birthday today. We're celebrating you today. We've bought a bunch of your favorite foods. We're having pizza for lunch and coke--no ice. We got Ritz crackers and Havarti cheese. We ate Corn Flakes and Oh's for breakfast. We're playing checkers. We're looking at pictures and videos of you. We're talking about you. Yes, we're crying, but it's healthy, too. We love and miss you so much, Daddy. I hope you're eating some sort of amazing heavenly ice cream. There's just GOT to be food in heaven. And I hope you're playing tennis and checkers and cards. I hope you're having a wonderful birthday. And I hope you know that you're loved and missed. We're so very grateful for you. How blessed are we to have you in our family? So blessed. So very, very blessed. I love you, Daddy. Happy Birthday.