Dad,
I miss you. It still comes in waves. Someone who didn't know pops up and I start re-telling all the details. I'm there again. It all comes rushing back.
Mom is trying to decide if she wants to move here. Michael is too. Of course I want that. I hate her being alone all the way over there. She's low right now Dad. I mean of course she is. She wants to teach, to honor you. You told her to keep teaching. In some ways it's helping her I think. But I see her pain. A light is out. She is tired, no exhausted. She seems beat up. I want her here so I can take care of her. Prop her up and hug her everyday. She needs that. It's so hard without you.
We are going to Big Sur and San Francisco still this Christmas. I'm taking your ashes there. I hate even saying that. But you said you were looking forward to that trip. I really was too, for you. I wanted it so bad for you Dad. I wanted that trip and those memories. So we will still go. And bring you with us.
I hate cancer and I love you.
Christal
Monday, November 24, 2014
Wednesday, November 12, 2014
November 12, 2014.
Dad,
Yesterday was a month. It was also Veteran's Day. Mom also went back to work. It was a big, emotional day. From what I hear, your wife was as courageous and wonderful as you'd expect. She told me she broke down finally at the end of the day in the bathroom. But she was surrounded by teachers who loved on her and let her cry.
I can't sleep lately. The last two nights, as soon as it is dark and quiet, I sleep for maybe an hour and then I'm awake, most of the night, with anxious thoughts of you. I dreamt that you were in my house in your hospital gown. You kept saying it was ok, but I felt scared and unsettled. It's like my mind is obsessively playing those last days.
I don't want to only think of those days. I don't want those days to define my memories. I'm sure they won't. I guess right now they need their time in the light though. They need to mulled over so that I can digest them.
I also don't want to just complain. Even when you were tired, tormented with sickness and brokenhearted by diagnosis, you tried to find joy. I know it was hard for you. But I know that you tried. So I will too.
Today I'm thankful for the beautiful California sun that greets me most mornings. I'm thankful for my silly and tender-hearted son who read books in my lap this morning and waves at everything from people to hard boiled eggs. I'm thankful for a husband who wakes up at 5:30 in the morning and makes breakfast for him with a smile, and jokes and laughter. I'm also thankful for the trip we are planning with mom and Michael and Paige this Christmas to Big Sur and San Francisco. We are still going Dad. For you, with you.
I love you so much.
Christal
Yesterday was a month. It was also Veteran's Day. Mom also went back to work. It was a big, emotional day. From what I hear, your wife was as courageous and wonderful as you'd expect. She told me she broke down finally at the end of the day in the bathroom. But she was surrounded by teachers who loved on her and let her cry.
I can't sleep lately. The last two nights, as soon as it is dark and quiet, I sleep for maybe an hour and then I'm awake, most of the night, with anxious thoughts of you. I dreamt that you were in my house in your hospital gown. You kept saying it was ok, but I felt scared and unsettled. It's like my mind is obsessively playing those last days.
I don't want to only think of those days. I don't want those days to define my memories. I'm sure they won't. I guess right now they need their time in the light though. They need to mulled over so that I can digest them.
I also don't want to just complain. Even when you were tired, tormented with sickness and brokenhearted by diagnosis, you tried to find joy. I know it was hard for you. But I know that you tried. So I will too.
Today I'm thankful for the beautiful California sun that greets me most mornings. I'm thankful for my silly and tender-hearted son who read books in my lap this morning and waves at everything from people to hard boiled eggs. I'm thankful for a husband who wakes up at 5:30 in the morning and makes breakfast for him with a smile, and jokes and laughter. I'm also thankful for the trip we are planning with mom and Michael and Paige this Christmas to Big Sur and San Francisco. We are still going Dad. For you, with you.
I love you so much.
Christal
Thursday, November 6, 2014
November 6, 2014.
Dad,
I follow an instagram account of this young doctor in Phoenix. She recently posted about how some of the major things in life happen in an instant. For her, becoming a doctor was one of those. One minute she wasn't and then the next minute, she was. It wasn't pretend, it wasn't training, she had made the major switch. She was now the doctor. I've been thinking about that. I became a momma in an instant. Of course there are the 9 months of pregnancy. Just as there are the years of working before you are called Dr. But his presence, my role, my life. It all changed in an instant. Suddenly he was there and life was forever changed. And death. One minute you were here and the next minute you weren't. My mind keeps trying to play catch up. Something so life altering happens so quickly. And every moment after that you realize, little by little, what it means. We knew it was coming. We witnessed it with our eyes. But it wasn't until you left this earth that my mind stopped treating it as a hypothetical, and was forced to deal with the reality of it.
I struggle, Dad, with people telling me it will always hurt, but it will get easier with time. I struggle because part of me doesn't want it to get easier. Somehow if it gets easier, it will feel like a betrayal. Like we moved on from you. That we forgot you. I know you'd want us to. And perhaps it's because it's still so new. I'm in no way ready to move on. I'm still understanding. I still miss you. I still replay everything so that I can come to terms with it.
I love you Dad.
Christal
I follow an instagram account of this young doctor in Phoenix. She recently posted about how some of the major things in life happen in an instant. For her, becoming a doctor was one of those. One minute she wasn't and then the next minute, she was. It wasn't pretend, it wasn't training, she had made the major switch. She was now the doctor. I've been thinking about that. I became a momma in an instant. Of course there are the 9 months of pregnancy. Just as there are the years of working before you are called Dr. But his presence, my role, my life. It all changed in an instant. Suddenly he was there and life was forever changed. And death. One minute you were here and the next minute you weren't. My mind keeps trying to play catch up. Something so life altering happens so quickly. And every moment after that you realize, little by little, what it means. We knew it was coming. We witnessed it with our eyes. But it wasn't until you left this earth that my mind stopped treating it as a hypothetical, and was forced to deal with the reality of it.
I struggle, Dad, with people telling me it will always hurt, but it will get easier with time. I struggle because part of me doesn't want it to get easier. Somehow if it gets easier, it will feel like a betrayal. Like we moved on from you. That we forgot you. I know you'd want us to. And perhaps it's because it's still so new. I'm in no way ready to move on. I'm still understanding. I still miss you. I still replay everything so that I can come to terms with it.
I love you Dad.
Christal
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