And so begins year three of being a fatherless daughter. It was in this very hour two years ago that I sat, alone, in my bedroom wrapped in my Daddy's cardigan while my mother, sisters and brother were bedside with Dad as he took his final breaths after having his ventilator removed.
On January 5th, 2021, a chasmic hole ripped into my being and I know that missing my father will never end. It's impossible. How could one NOT miss the intuition, the hugs, the constant familial pull he carried over all of us? Or his belly laugh and the way he could tell you all you needed to know about his feelings in the moment by looking in his eyes? One never stops cherishing these blessings.
I woke today feeling different than I did last year. Last year, I was still in a grief fog, saddened by a full year without Dad in my physical life. Today? I woke today humming some of his favorite songs - or, if not his favorite, songs that when I hear them, I think of Dad, first and foremost:
- Lady in Red
- Born to be Wild
- Tubthumping
- Electric Avenue
- Break My Stride
- Old Time Rock and Roll
I could go on. In fact, a Spotify playlist may be in order.
Anyway, it's a different feeling today than last year. Last year, I was called to honor him in a specific way, so I found an available Red Cross Blood Donation location and donated blood in his honor - he was a regular donor for as long as I can remember. They loved my Dad. I remember sitting with Mom the day after his funeral and the blood bank called to schedule him for his next session. That was the last time they called.
This year on January 5th? It's different. I have a warmth about me.
Knowing that I was raised and loved by this man for 44 1/2 years is a blessing.
- He would tell me the story, every adult birthday of mine, of how proud he was to be allowed in the delivery room for my birth. That wasn't an option for him with my siblings. I cherished how he described that memory in vivid detail each and every year.
- Pulling me and my cousins around Lake George on water skis on those early mornings when the lake was like glass and around Lake George on a tube in the afternoons when the lake was windy and choppy from boat traffic - his hat backwards on his head simultaneously watching ahead and sneaking peeks at us even though Mom watched with her eagle eyes.
- I remember him hustling, still in his suit so he could get to the sideline of a high school field hockey game to watch a sport he knew absolutely nothing about but was there to cheer on #8, anyway.
- He reluctantly, but proudly, set aside his UVA hats and allegiance when I was accepted to Virginia Tech and donned all the bookstore gear I rounded up for him over the years.
- Dad (and Mom), visiting me at VT for a parents weekend that coincided with Halloween and Dad agreeing to dress up and hit the bars with me and my friends. <see photo>.
- I recall him asking permission with his eyes to listen to the UVA v. Texas Tech NCAA final game on the radio when Laura and I were visiting in April 2019 and were in the car, late, coming from...where? I can't remember but that's not the point. Um. Dad. OF COURSE we want to hear! He was loyal like that, though and just wanted to be sure...it was ok.
These are the things in my heart and on my mind today. And I have a feeling some version of this is what January 5th will look like in years to come.
Today's revelation is that 2023 will be a year of reckoning in spite of my preference to shun resolutions year after year. I need to reckon with feelings. Complicated feelings. Feelings that I now know are less about missing Dad but rather <let's call it what it is> the enduring TRAUMA of those weeks overlapping Christmas, New Year's, Wedding Anniversary and Dad's Death and Funeral in 2020/2021.
For the third year in a row, living them live in the moment and reliving them these past two years, have sucked nearly all the joy out of the holiday season. I've allowed the distraction to prevent me from being present and making new memories.
What feelings?
Anger. This time of year, I fear, will forever be linked with anger. Who did this to my father? Who dared to be near him without masking, without taking proper precautions? Dad is, of course, innocent in these visions. He was in no way culpable, right? Well, no. Truth be told, I'm angry at him, too. Why couldn't he follow my irrational lead and be a fellow hermit, holed up in the protective cocoon that was his home? Why couldn't he set aside his call to volunteerism and to his obligations at church? If he'd only followed my every lead to a "T", he would be with us still today, right? There. I've said it. I was angry at Covid and was, and still am, angry with Dad.
Covid patients are not allowed visitors. The hospital policies were clear on visitors not being allowed - only one family member in the final moments of life, they said. Nobody is allowed near the Covid wing, they said. Well they lied. I trusted their policies. I trusted their guidance. And I'm angry about that too. I'm angry at them and I'm angry at myself for not pushing boundaries. I'm angry that Dad's DNA that willed him to rail against the machine when needed, all throughout his life, didn't get passed to me - but it made its way to my sisters. Why them and not me? I'm angry with them too. How dare they be braver, more headstrong, more faithful? Anger.
Fear. These weeks will forever be connected to paralyzing fear. I feared flying to be near my family in this time. What if I got Covid? What if then infect my husband and daughter and all the other people traveling? Fear.
Helplessness and Shame. These weeks flood my brain space with memories of helplessness in having a loved one suffering and out of physical reach. I couldn't possibly make the trip to be in Florida because of said fear. But also, I couldn't stay with Mom - she had Covid. So I'd travel and stay in a hotel, miles away from the hospital because they won't let me near him? What could I possibly do there? I chose to stay behind and my contribution was wearing the floor thin with my pacing. Gnawing my fingernails. Not eating, sleeping and googling relentlessly. I did write. It was really the only thing I knew to do. My family was generous, trying to tell me what a contribution that was, but the story I tell myself and the story I believe is that while I provided a service and helped streamline communication, they are disappointed in me - that I'm not brave or as faithful as they are. Helplessness. Shame.
Guilt. Then and now, my guilt is omnipresent. Dad, in my shoes and if roles were reversed, would have walked over smoldering lava to be with any of us in need. But I didn't reciprocate. I live with this decision everyday - it's my penance and I revisit my decision-making with guilt and regret. I know now, I'd have traded anything to hold Dad's hand in those last minutes.
I never actually got to say goodbye. And in what I didn't realize would be my actual last conversation with Dad, I didn't do the right thing and this leaves me guilt-ridden. It was a FaceTime with his i-pad being held by a nurse and she translating things to him because he couldn't hear well due to the machinery in the background. I wasted precious time with chirpy enthusiasm, encouraging him to keep fighting - to push through and have more time with us. How selfish was I? I should have assured him that he was everything in a Father that I ever deserved. That I was proud of him. Proud to be Dale Saunders' daughter. Proud that he was Laura Monger's Pop. Proud that he is Sue Saunders' ever faithful and loving husband and that, because of that example, I knew to find the same in my own husband. No, I just wanted more of him. My words of encouragement to him, were simply about me and what I wanted. Who does that? Who puts that pressure on someone in pain and who is suffering? Me. I do. Guilt.
Gah. Feelings. On paper, I can see the irrationality of these feelings, but now that I have them named, I can work through them. There's relief in having isolated grief over dad and all these other barriers. I hope that in doing and properly addressing these feelings, I will recapture joy in a time of year that I used to relish.
I know now that when people ask me how I'm doing (because, to be clear, when you see me, you can see I'm not doing "great"), that the assumption my heaviness is weighted in grief is false. No, the weight I now carry is crafted in residual Anger, Fear, Helplessness, Shame and Guilt, all rooted in the traumatic time period that was December 23, 2020 through January 5, 2021 and beyond.
To be clear: I'm not done grieving dad. I'm not sure grief ever really goes away, it's just something that, as time marches on, you carry in a different way than you do in the immediate aftermath of a death. Like, today, how I remember Dad musically and my positive, loving memories of my life with him flood me with warmth. In my heart, he's with me now and forever continuing to guide me...and (not but)...I'm sad I can't just pick up the phone to tell him all about today's revelations. He would understand.
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