One Year Memorial Service

My Dad died a year ago today.

People always talk about how tough the first year is. It is.

They talk about tough the first anniversary is. It is.

I wasn't sure if it would be or not. We've had such a wonderful Christmas and I'm so grateful. We've really been enjoying ourselves and having fun and feeling merry. The couple of days after Christmas have been good, too. And then, the other night, while Mark and I were trying out our new Guitar Hero game, images and thoughts came flashing into my mind uninvited--images of my Dad at the funeral home, images of my Dad's funeral procession, us riding in the limo following his coffin, us standing by his graveside, the flowers, back to him sick and dying in his bed. I shook them off and tried to distract myself. Where were they coming from, these unbidden thoughts?

And since then, I've dreamt about him more. I've not wanted to go to sleep nor have I wanted to get up in the morning. It's like the date on the calendar was creeping closer and I knew I'd have to face the fact that it's the one-year anniversary of my Dad's death.

Yesterday, as the clock kept ticking closer to the 31st, I kept thinking of how he died right around 2 in the morning. I didn't know whether to go to sleep or be awake and watch the time. For what, I don't know. I quietly cried here and there yesterday and just felt generally "out of it." Overall, I really am okay. But this is tough. I got to bed before 2 and thought I'd go to sleep. But I was restless. And I saw the time right before going to sleep--2:20. The time he died.

I'm haunted by his dying days--I was the main one administering his morphine. But he had no way to tell us if he was hurting--he wasn't able to speak or swallow anymore and his eyes very rarely opened at all. I followed the directions I was given, but at times he seemed uncomfortable and then I heard it was okay to give it to him more frequently. But before I knew that, there was a time when he raised his arms and flailed them about as if to tell us something. I thought he was just reaching out for us, so I held his hand and told him, "It's okay, Daddy. I'm here. We're here." But after that I recognized those motions as his only way of telling us that he was in pain or uncomfortable or something. Was he hungry? I don't know! If he was, I couldn't feed him since he couldn't swallow and he was actively dying. We swabbed his mouth to keep it moist. At first, he'd suck his lips around it, but after a while, he was too weak to do even that. And anytime he'd raise his arms, I took that as a signal of his discomfort or distress. I'd administer the morphine again. The doses were getting closer and closer together. And all I could think was that, though I didn't mean to, maybe I had inadvertently let him suffer by not giving him the medication more often at first. What if he'd been hurting and I didn't know? I thought he was reaching out to us for emotional comfort, but what if he was trying to tell us it hurt? And what if I took too long to give him the medicine that would take that pain away? It was horrible. I hope I didn't play any part in his hurting. I didn't understand what was happening--how could he not eat or drink? Did his senses naturally dull so the pain wasn't severe? Were his organs shutting down all at once or one at a time? How does that work? Did that hurt? The minutiae of the details of the process of his death were and are confusing to me, but I hope I didn't play any part in his hurting.

Being a part of helping him die was peaceful and beautiful and traumatic, all at the same time. It shook me. There were certain things I'd sort of banked on from the time I was about 18 years old and his death shook the very core of my faith in those things that I felt had been promised. I don't care to go into details of that, because that isn't the point of my post nor is it the most pressing thing on my mind at the moment. I think death is a really sucky part of life and I don't like it. It seems cruel and unfair. Couldn't there be a way that they could still visit or something? It's the missing them that's hard, them not being here, them not being with us. That's the hardest part. The part that seems so monumentally unfair. I miss him and everything I've known growing up seems so very different, especially my Mom being alone and simply his not being here with us in his own kind, low-key way.

We had a very nice memorial service this morning. After breakfast, we got a dish of water and put 4 floating candles in it. We each took a turn saying something we remember and love about Vavo and we each lit a candle on our turn. There were laughs and tears.

Mark went first and talked about how he remembers how generous my Dad has always been and how he'd always take time to really teach someone something. He would take his time and never hurry and spend a long time really teaching and imparting his wisdom. He talked about how he'll never forget my Dad helping him buy his first hammer and how it took 2 hours of carefully balancing and gently swinging and gripping each one to really make sure you got a good one. We cherish that hammer.

Maxim talked about how me liked sitting next to my Dad for breakfast, lunch, and dinner and he liked playing with him.

Kate said she remembers how he'd play checkers and tennis with her.

I couldn't speak without crying. I said how since Vavo is my Daddy, I really miss feeling looked out for by him and he'd always call me "Bibi" and how I miss that. I talked about how when I think of him, I think of someone who loves and was always so good to children. How he's kind and peace-loving and wouldn't argue and be harsh with others. He was gentle. We each lit our candles.


Then, we each took a turn saying what we'd like to say to Vavo. We sent him a message by uttering our thoughts and then blowing out the candles, the smoke rising up representing the messages being sent to him.

Mark started by saying that he would've liked to congratulate him on 50 years of marriage since my Mom and Dad's 50th wedding anniversary is coming up in May and they'll miss celebrating that the way they'd hoped. He said he'd like to congratulate him on all those years of marriage together, raising children together, and all the hard work they've done because that's really special.

Maxim said, "I like playing checkers with you."

Kate said, "I love you, Vavo" and started to cry.

I cried and said that I'd thank him for always being a good Daddy to me and tell him that I miss him and that I wish he could see our garden and our house and our business and that I'm sad he's not here to see all that and to watch our children grow up. And I'd tell him that I love him.

We blew out our candles and watched the messages rise up to him.

I miss you, Daddy.

Mark told me that after I left the room and after our little service, Kate pulled out her "Vavo Box" -- a little box she keeps full of momentos about Vavo. She was tearful and Mark was consoling her with a hug. Maxim walked in and asked why Kate was sad. Mark told him that she misses Vavo. Maxim, trying to comfort her, joined in the hug and said, "Kate, you know he'll be resurrected." And then Mark said, "That's true, but it kind of stinks that he's not here right now." And then Maxim asked, "Daddy, when is he going to be resurrected?" Mark responded, "I don't know exactly, buddy. When everyone else is. I wish I knew." Then Maxim said, "Oh, I wish he could be resurrected on my birthday so he could come to my party."

It's been a nice, reflective morning. I'm glad we've done a little memorial service together to commemorate. After our little service, I told the kids that it's nice to do a little something to remember and commemorate and I know that it's kind of strange since it's New Year's Eve, but also . . . if there's one thing Vavo has always enjoyed it's seeing people eating and happy, so we are going to have a nice holiday and celebrate and enjoy, just like he'd like us to. So, happy New Year's Eve, everyone. And thanks for listening. :) We've received so many thoughtful emails and prayers from people and we are very grateful. Thanks.