Let’s start out by being upfront. Today is the anniversary
of my father’s death.
I won’t go into the details. They matter, but they don’t
particularly matter to you. And this post is less for an audience and more for
self-processing, for seeing this last year written down in black and white.
It’s about how my dad, and his death, affected me.
So it starts with praying for a miracle. With saying a
rosary (in Italian, because why not) on the way to the hospital everyday and
saying another on the way back. It starts with him sitting in his hospital bed
lucid, then not lucid, then barely lucid as he is transferred to the ICU. The
night before he passed away, I cried for the first time since he had gone into
the hospital, sitting in my apartment in College Station because, no matter
what we want, our lives do not stop when someone we love is dying.
There’s a call the next morning and I’m told to say goodbye.
I won’t make it in time to say it in person. I don’t cry then and I don’t cry
when I arrive home. Instead, I plan a funeral.
My family likes to deal with tragedy through morbid (and
therefore somewhat inappropriate) humor. (My sister and I now say that we sing
at both weddings and funerals!) The
only time I cry instead of laugh is when I see a friend at the burial site who
has flown across the country to be there for me. When I hug her, I let myself
cry for a few seconds.
The thing about funerals is that people you’ve never met
show up. They know all about you because your dad was always bragging about his
kids, but you’re realizing that he had a life you weren’t a part of, friends
that you never knew. And it’s nice to know that dad was so well loved, but it’s
also strange to know that they knew a different version of him, one that was
reserved for friends rather than family. The funeral ends and we go home.
And I’m angry at God.
It’s a quiet anger, a consistent but small flame burning in
my chest because I prayed for a miracle and I
didn’t get it. My dad died and if God had wanted to, He could have saved him. It turns out that
believing miracles are possible makes it that much more painful when they don’t
happen.
It felt like a friend had betrayed me. Being Catholic, it
actually felt like multiple friends had betrayed me because saints. Wrestling with that
was…difficult to say the least. Dad wasn’t there at my graduation, wasn’t there
when I left for Kenya, and wasn’t there when I got back. And he should have
been.
No one should have to watch their father die by inches in a
hospital bed. For me, it didn’t matter that I believed in heaven; I wanted my
dad on earth. I wanted him to stay with me.
During my time in Kenya, I had a lot of time to reflect on
my life and on the past year. A lot of that happened when I prayed the rosary
or in adoration. Like I said before, I had prayed the rosary in Italian
everyday when I visited the hospital. For the next five months, I didn’t pray the
rosary in Italian, because if I did, all that emotion flooded back, including
the sadness and anger. But the sisters pray the rosary every day, and so I
prayed it with them. They have adoration every week, so I attended adoration
with them. For a stubborn and disgruntled Catholic, it was basically the
equivalent of aversion therapy. You have issues with these things? Well, do
them enough and you’ll get over it eventually or you’ll leave.
It’s a long process. I’m still not happy with God. Honestly,
I might not ever be. I still believe in miracles, so I still believed He could
have saved my dad. But time has given me some perspective.
I loved my dad, even though he wasn’t perfect. He was
fighting battles I’ve never had to fight and dealing with issues I’ve never had
to face. Selfishly, I would have rather he stayed on earth and continued to
fight and struggle, as long as he was still here. But he no longer has to
fight. When God took him, He took him away from those things on earth that
cause us hurt and suffering. Really, dad got the better end of the deal.
There’s nothing that says I have to be happy with that
though. I’m allowed to feel angry, to be upset that I no longer have my dad.
Grieving for all the things that might have been doesn’t make me a selfish
person, nor does it diminish my relationship with God. A relationship is just
that – a relationship. It has ups and downs and moments when people are angry
at each other, when they don’t want to talk even though they know they should.
I’m human God doesn’t expect me to be happy with everything He does. He knows
me better than that. Maybe He has a plan for all this, but if this past year
has taught me anything, it’s that, though He wants me to trust Him, He isn’t
going to force me to do so. He’s willing to wait until I forgive Him. After
all, forgiveness is kind of His specialty.
So on this anniversary of dad’s death, I offer a toast.
To everyone who knew my dad and loved him, who visited him
in the hospital and traveled across the country to be at his funeral, may they
always remember him as the boisterous man in the Ole Miss T-shirt that was
never short on laughs.
To my mom and siblings, who have supported me and each other
during this past year, even when we hack each other off, may we continue to use
inappropriate humor to keep our loss in perspective.
To my God, who, while still not exactly on my favorite
persons list at the moment, has continued to patiently wait as I deal with the
ramifications of grief and anger.
And lastly, to my dad. I still miss you. I
traveled around the world this year and, though I didn’t bring home a gift this
time, I thought of you as I walked through the Masaii market in Kenya and down
the streets of Amman, Jordan. My next stop is Geneva, and I promise I’ll think
of you there, too. Since you’re watching over me, you’ll see all the places you
never got to see while you were alive. I hope I'll make you proud.
