A Lot Can Happen in Six Months
Tomorrow means 6 months will have passed since I said goodbye to Daddy. Six whole months.
So much has happened in that amount of time- I started a new job, moved into a new apartment, became a full-fledged adult, created a new life for myself. Sissy has literally created a new life in that time, and soon(ish) we get to meet the beautiful baby girl who will make the next six months bearable. I’m not sure she’ll ever realize how much of a gift she truly is to this family. How the first Christmas without Dad will be okay because it will also be little missy’s first Christmas.
I have always appreciated Dad’s ability to write. I like to think it’s something that he passed on to each of us- and in doing so, made our college experiences a little bit easier. Many of my friends envied the fact that I could sit down the night before a paper was due and hammer out something worthy of the A it would undoubtedly receive. Paper writing came easily to me because I could find my voice in writing- while I couldn’t always organize my thoughts well enough in conversation, I knew that my writing would be clear, concise, persuasive and passionate. I don’t think I ever earned anything lower than a 5/5 on the “voice” section of the CIM grading rubric. The plus-side of that is that readers are more likely and willing to overlook other shortcomings when a strong voice is present- they get too caught up in the argument the author is trying to make.
I think Dad and I shared this trait. While neither of us excelled at verbal communication, when it came to writing, we found our niche. There was even a period of time when he and I communicated almost exclusively through writing- either by email or leaving notes for each other on the kitchen counter.
You have experienced his writing firsthand if you read his blog. While most people don’t understand why we’ve become such a “blog family,” it has never been something I questioned. I prefer to write than to talk. And, perhaps the most important thing to me, is that writing can be kept much longer than the conversation. Aside from an entire book of blog entries, I have countless emails saved in a special folder, each that share a part of him with me.
His letter writing was exquisite. He didn’t do it often, but when Dad sat down to write you a letter, you knew it would be something you’d keep for years to come- and I could tell you where all but one of them are at this very moment. Five and a half years ago, when he learned that his life would probably end well before any of us wanted it to, he sat down and wrote us each letters- which were probably as hard for him to write as they were for us to read. Mine sits next to my bed, and has been read and reread countless times over the last six months. In it and through it I find peace. Even though he wrote it years ago, it affirms what I have known deep down my entire life- that he loves me. It also answers questions I’ve always wanted to ask, and in doing so, gives me the strength to be okay with goodbye.
There are times when I doubt the decisions that I made in those five and a half years- Should I have gone to school somewhere closer? Should I have moved back to Oregon after graduation? Should I have made more of an effort to embrace his last few years?
Tonight, as I was going through some of those emails I have saved, I came across one he sent me in September, after he and I had a discussion about his prognosis. He ended it with a clear answer to the questions that periodically haunt me.
“Whatever the time span is, I want all of us to enjoy as much of it as we can, without asking any of you to make changes in plans or hopes. Go. Do. Be. What happens, happens...and at the end, whenever that happens, we all smile and thank our God that He let us share time together.”
And so, even on days when I want to share with him my latest hospital experience, I remember that I am where I am today because he encouraged me to go where I needed to go, to do what I wanted to do, and to be who I’ve become.
So as I spend tomorrow night in the hospital caring for patients who will experience many more years to come, I will think back on my very first patient, with tears in my eyes and a smile on my face, confident that he is proud.
So much has happened in that amount of time- I started a new job, moved into a new apartment, became a full-fledged adult, created a new life for myself. Sissy has literally created a new life in that time, and soon(ish) we get to meet the beautiful baby girl who will make the next six months bearable. I’m not sure she’ll ever realize how much of a gift she truly is to this family. How the first Christmas without Dad will be okay because it will also be little missy’s first Christmas.
I have always appreciated Dad’s ability to write. I like to think it’s something that he passed on to each of us- and in doing so, made our college experiences a little bit easier. Many of my friends envied the fact that I could sit down the night before a paper was due and hammer out something worthy of the A it would undoubtedly receive. Paper writing came easily to me because I could find my voice in writing- while I couldn’t always organize my thoughts well enough in conversation, I knew that my writing would be clear, concise, persuasive and passionate. I don’t think I ever earned anything lower than a 5/5 on the “voice” section of the CIM grading rubric. The plus-side of that is that readers are more likely and willing to overlook other shortcomings when a strong voice is present- they get too caught up in the argument the author is trying to make.
I think Dad and I shared this trait. While neither of us excelled at verbal communication, when it came to writing, we found our niche. There was even a period of time when he and I communicated almost exclusively through writing- either by email or leaving notes for each other on the kitchen counter.
You have experienced his writing firsthand if you read his blog. While most people don’t understand why we’ve become such a “blog family,” it has never been something I questioned. I prefer to write than to talk. And, perhaps the most important thing to me, is that writing can be kept much longer than the conversation. Aside from an entire book of blog entries, I have countless emails saved in a special folder, each that share a part of him with me.
His letter writing was exquisite. He didn’t do it often, but when Dad sat down to write you a letter, you knew it would be something you’d keep for years to come- and I could tell you where all but one of them are at this very moment. Five and a half years ago, when he learned that his life would probably end well before any of us wanted it to, he sat down and wrote us each letters- which were probably as hard for him to write as they were for us to read. Mine sits next to my bed, and has been read and reread countless times over the last six months. In it and through it I find peace. Even though he wrote it years ago, it affirms what I have known deep down my entire life- that he loves me. It also answers questions I’ve always wanted to ask, and in doing so, gives me the strength to be okay with goodbye.
There are times when I doubt the decisions that I made in those five and a half years- Should I have gone to school somewhere closer? Should I have moved back to Oregon after graduation? Should I have made more of an effort to embrace his last few years?
Tonight, as I was going through some of those emails I have saved, I came across one he sent me in September, after he and I had a discussion about his prognosis. He ended it with a clear answer to the questions that periodically haunt me.
“Whatever the time span is, I want all of us to enjoy as much of it as we can, without asking any of you to make changes in plans or hopes. Go. Do. Be. What happens, happens...and at the end, whenever that happens, we all smile and thank our God that He let us share time together.”
And so, even on days when I want to share with him my latest hospital experience, I remember that I am where I am today because he encouraged me to go where I needed to go, to do what I wanted to do, and to be who I’ve become.
So as I spend tomorrow night in the hospital caring for patients who will experience many more years to come, I will think back on my very first patient, with tears in my eyes and a smile on my face, confident that he is proud.
Beautifully eloquent. These last few entries, Vix...so good. Thank you for sharing.
ReplyDeleteNate kind of stole my comment : ), but I wanted to add that the timing of this seems serendipitous because I just found the email Dad wrote in response to me saying I felt like I should try to have a baby following his re-diagnosis. I had remembered what he told me about it, which echoes what he wrote to you about not wanting any of us to change plans for his illness... but reading it again in his own writing helped to make me feel better about the timing of everything. And thanks for what you said about the baby. She might not understand quite why she is so special, but I think she will be able to feel it anyhow. : )
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