Some days life is harder than usual. Things pop up and the first person I want to tell is my number one fan. As soon as the thought forms, tears come to my eyes. Dad’s not here. Not physically. It brings no comfort to know that he could be looking down and knowing whatever it is I want to tell him. I want that joy on his face or the pride in our conversation to be there. It’s just having that close relationship and being able to be hyped up on the energy you bring to each other.
There’s not much comfort in days of loss. Days of loss are deeper than a regular day of trying to make it through. These days can be random and they hit out of nowhere. I can be cruising along and actually miss when I’d get a call to just “see what’s up, whatcha doing, kid” even when it’s an inconvenient time – I just want that call again.
It’s not that God’s comfort isn’t enough. It’s that that’s not the comfort I seek at times. I want the comfort of Dad himself and it’s just a time I have to work through and get out of and turn my perspective away from my loss and turn it to His plan.
Sometimes I’m more quiet than usual. I may not cry or seem overly depressed, but my thoughts are on all I lost when cancer silently rotted away at Dad’s chance at a longer life.
Every time I think about the aggressive cancer that had formed and grew within Dad’s body, I think about his strength and endurance, but also about the way things turned so fast.
I don’t want things to change. I don’t want to believe that he’s really gone. Yes, I was in the room shortly after he passed and I saw the lack of breathing. I felt his cold arm. I saw his body in the casket, his face just as I will always remember, strong and smooth. I sat through a celebration of his life and there were tears. I was at the graveside service. None of it has made it sink in any further.
I just miss Dad. I want him to walk through that door. I want him to say “I finally got out of that hospital bed” because he was sure adamant about getting out just days before his last. I wish that the news had been better – what he was hoping for. If anything at all, he wanted it to be stage 2 cancer or before, not 4 and aggressively spreading.
Why couldn’t that stage 4 cancer been early enough to give us more time to enjoy life outside a hospital room?
Dad enjoyed his life as best he could given the circumstances. He laughed, joked, watched TV (hallmark mostly, occasionally some football…) and talked all while confined to a small room and a bed that took 5 days to figure out how to adjust on his own.
I wanted more for Dad in those lost days. It was literally just days I had with him. Days that went by so fast. I wanted more for Dad because he gave me so much. He always wanted more for me.
Life is different without my number one fan. He would want me to keep going, that’s what I’ll do. It’s just not as motivating knowing I can’t go talk to him in a two way conversation about life.
It’s been one week since his departure from this world. It feels so fresh still, it feels like it happened this morning.
Days of loss are not few, they’re great in number. My prayer is that the days of loss become fewer and easier to bare.