Dear Dad
by Jenners • 08/22/2010 • Love and Loss • 34 Comments
Dear Dad,
I can’t believe it has been a year since you died. In many ways, I still feel a sense of disbelief about your death. If I catch a glimpse of someone who looks like you, my heart does a little stutter. If I call the house, I anticipate your voice answering the phone. If I’m reading a book and come across a passage that I know you would enjoy, I think “I’ve gotta read this to Dad.”
In my brain, I know you are gone from this world. But in my heart, I’m still trying to accept this. I feel like I’ve put up wallpaper over this big gaping hole where my grief for you lies. And sometimes I punch a hole right through and feel this enormous empty spot where you should be. I have to keep reminding myself that you aren’t here to talk to any more … that you’re not on some extended vacation and will be coming back any day now with marvelous stories to tell us.
Sometimes I go to Amazon and visit your wishlist, which is still up there. I know that sounds really strange, but I find it comforting in a weird way. It is a trace of you still left out there in the world that I can go to and visit. I look at the books that you had on there and wish I had been able to give them all to you to read. Sometimes I reread old letters you sent me when I was in college. Inspired by some of the books you mentioned, I’ve started reading books you always wanted me to read (Musashi) or we read together (The Once and Future King). Because of a letter you sent, I’m reading The Brothers Karamazov right now. Let me tell you, this is an enormous act of love on my part because that book is brutal! It is only for you that I would read it!
The Little One and I talk about you frequently. He is still struggling to come to terms with your death and what it means in his world (his mom and dad could die too). Talking to him has helped me immensely. By telling him that Grandpop wouldn’t want us to cry all the time and be sad, I remind myself that it really is what you would have wanted. I wish you could see him though. He’s growing up to be such a great little kid, and he’s at an age that I think you would really enjoy. He has lots of “deep” thoughts, and I know he would have loved to learn more about the brain from you. The other day I told him we needed to go through his clothes to see what he needed for school, and he made me promise that we wouldn’t get rid of the t-shirt you gave him from Nepal. He wants to keep it forever because it came from you. I think that would make you happy.
In the past year, I found myself seeking out books about the afterlife in an attempt to understand what you might be doing now. I like to think of you having a grand adventure out there somewhere, which I’m sure I am unable to comprehend because of my puny human brain. We all shared our stories of signs and dreams that we felt you sent to us to let us know you are OK. When we met Mom and Chris out in San Diego, we saw a butterfly everyday so it felt like you were there with us too.
Mom has been doing as well as can be expected I think. She had a really tough winter, but she made it through. She’s starting to try and piece together a life without you there, and Chris is doing an amazing job of being there to support her and help her out with the house. As much as possible, I think we’ve all managed to comes to terms with what happened–as unreal as it sometimes feels.
You left a huge gaping hole in our lives–and in the lives of so many other people. It was amazing and so healing to hear from so many of your former patients and colleagues and friends. Everyone had a funny story to tell about you, and I was so proud to hear what a great doctor you were. So many of your patients took the time to tell us what a difference you made in their lives. That is no small thing to leave the world a better place, and I think you really managed to do that.
Although not a day goes by that I don’t think about you (I keep your retirement photo by my bed and look at it when I wake up and when I go to sleep), I thought I’d take some time to write you this letter. It makes me feel connected to you in some small way.
I miss you and I love you.
Love,
Jen
I am struck by how much you look like your father (at least in that photo). It sounds like you had a wonderful relationship and good memories that will carry that relationship with you.
(((hugs))) the hole in your heart never really goes away, but good memories make it bearable.
Your dad didn't have to read it, he already knew exactly what you would write to him.
I think it can be a comfort to think of him showing up unexpectedly, maybe it's in a very similar smile of a store clerk, or hearing a snippet of his favorite song on the radio, or even walking into a library and seeing one of the books he loved…right in front of you, and all the other books fade into the background.
I wish I had had recordings of my dad's voice – I am not sure I can recall it anymore.
God bless you and comfort you, Jenners…..*hugs*
I'm so sorry. I imagine that hole will be there for a long long time. Big hugs!
What a touching letter. You were luckily to have such a wonderful father in your life and writing about him makes his memory live on…even in those of us who didn't get a chance to know him.
I want to read this but I can't. I'm sorry.
This is such a beautiful, heartfelt letter to your father. I cannot imagine the feelings of loss that must come in waves. It sounds like your dad was a wonderful man who truly did make a positive impact on the lives he touched. Thinking of you, sweetie
It is so hard on little ones, isn't it? My little ones are having a hard time understanding their grandmas' deaths, too. Just a couple of weeks ago Emmy asked my sister, "When are my grandmas going to be alive again?" Ugh…it's so hard! Thinking about you as you miss your dad so very much….
What a beautiful letter. It will be another wonderful treasure for the Little One.
Margaret
You'll never forget!
Jenners…{{big hugs}} to you…I can see his smile in yours:)
What a beautiful letter…I think Sometimes Sophia summed it up perfectly…
You are an amazing, joy-filled person…I've no doubt that your father is watching over your family and is very proud:)
love you!
What a nice letter. I can't imagine what this must feel like. You seem to be handling it very well.
Gaah…I KNEW this was gonna make me cry, darnit! I lost my dad about a year and a half ago and you said everything I've been feeling and writing about. Right down to the impact on my son – Dad was my number one helper with him when my marriage ended so he and the kid had an extra-special relationship. Thank you for sharing your story with such beautiful words!
I actually teared up reading this and have a lump in my throat. What a beautiful letter. Thank you for sharing this.
Wonderful letter. You truly are honoring and remembering your dad in a wonderful way.
I'm sorry for your loss… *hugs*
Your letter is a window. Looking out, we see your dad heroic, loving, accomplished, memorable – all that he was and is to you. Looking in, you've allowed us to see the wonderful daughter and parent that is his legacy. It's touching and inspiring to see the way you've grown despite or because of your grief. Stay strong. Hugs.
Your pain at losing your father is so real in this letter, that I have a lump in my throat.
The visual of you visiting his amazon wish list…too much for me.
This is beautiful and I am so sorry. You look like him.
This is a beautiful letter. Thank you for sharing it with us. Your father was truly a wonderful person. I feel like I knew him too.
I can't believe it's been a year already. My heart broke for you then, and it breaks for you now, too. Your dad sounds like a hero, through and through and through.
Have you figured out why he liked The Brothers Karamazov yet? There must be SOME reason, right?!?!?!?
This was a really beautiful and heartfelt post.
I totally know where you are coming from.
What a beautiful letter. I can't believe that it has been a year- it seems like just last week that I read about what happened and cried for your family.
I am still so sorry for your GREAT loss.
What a beautiful post. I have tears in my eyes reading it. My heart goes out to you for your loss.
Lovely letter. My mother died three years ago. Because she lived so far away from me and was not a part of my everyday life, it is easy to forget that she is gone. I catch myself remembering at odd times…when her favorite perfume is on sale I think I should buy it early and save it for Christmas…and then I remember.
I am sorry for your loss.
That is a beautiful and touching letter. I fully believe that your dad can read it somewhere.
Thinking of you today.
<3
The love you have for your dad is so touching. Thinking of you.
I love how you look at your dad's picture each morning and night. I have my dad's picture in one of my anthologies. Funny that I sometimes forget it is there. It becomes a real treasure for me when I come across his picture unexpectedly.
I think it is beautiful how you are keeping your dad alive for your son.
Jen, keep looking for signs. He's with you and your family. That thought helps me so much when I think of my dad. Hugs and love to you.
Beautiful. Pass the tissue please……
What a beautiful, touching letter. I'm so sorry for your loss.
I think you're doing a good job keeping his memory alive for The Little One and for yourself. I'm sure your dad is very proud of all of you.
Your father sounds like he was a grand guy! I lost my dad 3 years ago your letter touched on many of the feelings I have about his passing.
I can't believe it's been a year already. We lost my father-in-law three and a half years ago and I still turn every time I see someone that looks like him. The strangest things bring tears to our eyes but it's also easier now to talk about the good times and to tell Z about him.
You are doing a great job of keeping his memory alive and he would be proud of who you are as a wife, friend and mother.
My sympathies and best wishes go with you today. It's tough, but it sounds as if you're dealing with it well.
A lovely, tender letter.
This is a beautiful letter and I know he has read it. I love that you visit his wish list – that sounds like something I would do.
And I can see your resemblance in the photo you have of him.
I wish I had more comforting words – this is so difficult, I cannot even imagine. Only that is must be impossibly hard.
You will see him again someday, that is something I am certain of.