One Week

Monday, February 2, 2009

Seven days.

I got a speeding ticket.

I returned to work.

We went to Santa Cruz and walked on the beach.

My Dad died of liver cancer.

Many things happened, most of them pretty much normal and expected.  Except they weren’t normal.  Everything, no matter how pedestrian or routine or automatic suddenly became a potential reminder – a wince inducing prompt for the same thought.

He’s gone.

Our Dad, that constant presence in our lives since…always, is gone.  He died.  It’s a simple, hard and cold truth that no amount of wishing, crying or arguing can change.

I’m wearing his ‘Livestrong’ bracelet on my arm.  It’s just a piece of rubber, but I dread the day it breaks or falls off.  Because it’s his.  I cried today going to work, when I discovered that the last voicemail messages I had from him were gone from my phone.  They were just of him telling me his flight was canceled, nothing particularly important except for the fact that they were priceless recordings of a voice I ache to talk to.

I keep telling everyone that he died well.  That he left us surrounded by love and affection, aware of the deep impact he had on us and how much he meant.  We know that is a luxury afforded on few families – that chance to say goodbye, to express your love and have that comfort of no regrets.

But regrets remain, perhaps inevitably so.  He’ll never see Nicky play soccer (and give me tips on how to teach him).  He’ll never meet our new son, one we expect to welcome in just a few weeks.  He’ll never see Sara or Sofia walk down the aisle.  He’ll never…the list is endless.

I hope he knew how much he was valued and will be missed, for his endless affection for his grandchildren, his dedication to taking care of his families and his unwavering love.

It’s been a week.

I miss you Dad.