Ten Years.

On his last day of chemotherapy, the first time around: 2006. 

 Today marks ten years since we lost Dad. A decade. 

At this point, I feel like I should be some sort of expert on grief, with a decade of loss under my belt, but in all honesty, it still sneaks up on me.  

I've encountered a lot of death since we said our final goodbyes to Daddy- three more family members, several loved and well known patients... I've welcomed far too many friends into the "Dead Dad Club" and it seems like each year, I get an email about a student who has lost a parent in the middle of their college experience- which takes me right back to being 23 and knowing I'll never get one of his hugs again. 

The writer in me wants this to be well organized and thoughtful, but I haven't been in the practice of writing my feelings out as much these last several years, so this is really just an attempt to get my feelings down onto "paper."  I appreciate re-reading the writing I did in the years following Dad's diagnosis, and then as I processed the loss, so I'm trying to get back into the habit of doing so now.  For now, here are a few disjointed thoughts. 

I googled my dad's name over the summer and came across his obituary.  I had been looking for the obituary of a friend's father, and wanted to remember what Liz wrote about Dad so long ago.  In doing so, I discovered a lot of comments that I had never read before.  The loss I mourn the most is that I never got to know my dad as a friend. I had *just* graduated college and started adult life when we lost him, and I have often wondered in the last few years what he was like as an adult, but from an adult perspective.  I know he was a good friend because he always had a lot of friends who spoke highly of him, and I watched him prioritize his friendships, even in the midst of his treatment, but there is a lot outside of the "dad world" that I wish I could have seen and experienced for myself. One of the comments talked about his involvement in the community, which was something I experienced, but hadn't thought about beyond having to get up early to make pancakes on Saturday mornings in high school. 

In a year when caring about your community feels especially important, I have since thought about how involved he was- not only did we make pancakes regularly, but we sorted and wrapped gifts with the fire department as a part of their toy drives, and participated in several parades over the years- each of these just small family-based examples of the work he was doing on a regular basis.  Even when he changed jobs and moved offices to Salem, he still pushed for his employer to continue to support his work in the community with which he had already been involved.  Now, a part of me thinks this was largely motivated by several community golf tournaments that he could count as "business expenses" but I am grateful that now, as an adult, the idea of being invested in your community and it's wellbeing was something I learned at a young age.  

Go ahead and add my interest and involvement with community-based health issues to the list of things I wish I could talk to him about. Right now that list includes how sassy Annie is, how good Nora is in the goal, how we all should have seen Liz's obsession with the Peloton coming, how we used to watch Megan Rapinoe play Pilot soccer back in the day... the list is always changing, but never gets any shorter. 

While I'm no expert in grief, even a decade into it, there are some things I wish I could share with the Vickie who is new to the experience: 

• 1. Dig through the drawers to find his GLORY tshirt, and pick out a favorite sweatshirt of his to keep.  I know it seems like you don't really care about his clothes and stuff right now, but those are things you'll want in the future.  Just pack them away until it stops opening the floodgates of grief. 
• 2. Look for all of the pictures and videos you can find- since smart phones were relatively new back then, Dad doesn't have much of a digital imprint, which will make finding things more difficult than you want them to.  You will rarely get to hear his voice, except for the message you'll never delete, even though it's just about cars. 
• 3. Write down your memories as they come to you- because the forgetting is real.  I know it hurts to think about him right now, but it hurts even more to realize how fast those memories fade, especially when you constantly push them to the back of your brain. 
• 4. Encourage people to share their memories of him with you- whenever they happen.  This happened a few times early on, but it is one of the best surprises to hear when someone else is reminded of him. 
• 5. Your grief journey is your own. It won't look like Sissy's, or Katie's, or anyone else who knows first hand what it's like to lose their father- and that's okay. You don't have to compare yourself to them.  It's okay to be sad and happy at the same time. 

I don't think this is all necessarily advice I would give other people, but it's things that I wish were a little different over the years. Because of when my dad died, and the transitory nature of life immediately after college graduation, I can count on one hand the people who I still interact with regularly who got to meet my dad (aside from family)- and that is strange.  It is weird to have someone be so influential in your life, and yet be a total stranger to those closest to you now. It's also weird to think that he never got to know the person *I* am today, although I like to think he isn't not entirely surprised at the adult I have become. 

Usually I try to find a way to honor my Dad on January 12th- whether it's to spend too much money on something I don't really need, or eat a lot of Ding-Dongs and Pepsi, or make a fresh batch of margaritas- but today none of that feels exactly right.  The more I thought about it, the more I just wanted to be sad. 

I am sad he's gone. I am sad he doesn't get to meet and tease his grandchildren, and cheer them on from the sidelines.  I am sad we can't talk about life in 2021, and why this country sucks so much right now.  I'm sad I cant talk to him about baseball, or hear him laugh over his own corny jokes. I'm very sad I won't ever get another one of his hugs. 

So I leaned into it and watched the videos from his memorial, and looked at old pictures and read old letters and opened up a new blog post, since he was one of the most avid readers of my very first blog- because he taught me a long time ago that life is better when you share it with the people you love. Even when you're sad.