Today I woke up like every other day. I grumbled about how I had to leave the burrito of blankets. I read texts with my head still under the covers. I shoved the dog over to give myself at least one quarter of the bed. It was, for all intents and purposes, a normal day. A normal day without my dad. Without his jokes, his sarcastic quips, his unconditional love and, let's be real - his criticisms of all the things I do.
Lying there this morning, I realized two things - it wasn't a normal day. I doubt that the 19th of December will ever come and go without me remembering what that last day was like. I'll never forget the 911 call, the fact that I administered CPR to him until the ambulance arrived. I will never forget the looks my mother and sister shared with me in those excruciating minutes before anyone arrived to help us. My mind will never let go of the longest two miles I've ever driven to the hospital behind the ambulance.
But then I also realized the second thing - the memories I have of my father will also ever die. I will forever recall his smile, his loud booming voice, how big his hands always seemed in mine - even when I was an adult. The good things he instilled in me will never die. His love for helping others won't cease to exist because he does. The work ethic he showed me my entire life will forever stick with me. And let's be honest - his brutal honesty, his lack of filter from brain to mouth, and his do what you want, say what you want attitude is something no one can ever take from me.
So I got up with the sudden revelation that I was free to enjoy year number three. And not feel guilty about it. I'm sad he's gone. And I always will feel a sense of loss. But I think it's important to know that enjoying your life, and even the day they passed is not only okay - it's good.
Today we ventured to the humane society where he adopted a cat for my mom days before his last surgery and paid for a large dog adoption fee in his name. He had a cat cage dedicated with his name on a plaque. The large dogs are overlooked. And most expensive. He would have loved knowing he helped someone get a dog that may have been ignored without his help. And let's be real - he would have loved to make a joke about how he will forever be surrounded by pussy by being in the cat room. I'd apologize for that distasteful joke. But, a.) he would have loved it and b.) I got my lack of apologizing from him as well.
Today is also the day we buried his mother, a year before he passed away. So we went to grab lunch at one of her favorite places. While there, we noticed a letter above some food donations from a family explaining they had been the victim of a tragic fire a few years ago. Since they received so much help from others, they spent the next few years giving back around the same time as their fire and put together a dinner for the less fortunate at Christmas. We left for the store, after lunch, and doubled what was already collected.
My work is hosting a food drive with my old place of employment. (He would love that so much!) So our last stop was to drop off a load of food for them, as well. As we loaded the food into the back of the truck there, I felt happy. And at peace. I enjoyed the day. And he would have loved every moment of it, as well. And you know what - that's okay. The memory of him will live on. In all of us. In what we do. In what he's taught all of us. And he enjoyed his life to the fullest. So it's only fitting that we do the same. And then make a poor taste joke about him being forever surrounded by pussy.
He will, in essence, never truly die. He will live on in our stories, in his legacy, and in the joy we experience every day. And I'm free to begin to enjoy number three. Even if he isn't here to see it.
