December 16, 2008

Hi Dad,

Red pointed out to me this morning that a week ago today was the last full day of your normal life. That is so unbelievably hard to imagine. The two days we spent in the hospital felt like a month alone. Since we’ve gotten home, time has passed so slowly that each day could really be three.

Right now I’m going through the denial, depression, and anger stages of grief simultaneously. Or maybe those aren’t all stages of grief. Tenth grade health was a long time ago. Either way, I fit into any one of those categories throughout each day.

There are moments when your death feels so real and I smell your hat or I smell your gloves that you used when you worked outside and it really hits me that I’ll never see you again and it’s HORRIBLE. Much of the time though, I find myself feeling like you’ll walk through the door any minute, that we’ll be able to hear you pounding the snow off of your boots as you get to the top of the stairs and then you’ll walk in and say, “Well, hi Ang. What time did you get home?”

We’ve been going through hundreds of pictures of you, reminiscing, deciding which to use for the picture boards at the funeral and I am happy during those times. It feels a lot like we are planning a surprise birthday party for you and that’s the only reason you’re not sitting at the table with us, flipping through the pictures. Every picture makes me a little bit happier and maybe I’m crazy, but I sort of feel like you’re guiding me to them when I need them the most. Yesterday Red and I decided to cry in the bedroom with the door shut so nobody can come comfort us and tell us it’s going to be okay (it’s not!). I was lying on the bed crying and I can’t explain it, but I needed to cry on the floor instead. Like, I didn’t even have an option. I just needed to. So I threw myself down on the blankets by the floor, turned my head, and saw under the bed an album containing some of our favorite pictures of you. It wasn’t the first time this happened and it wasn’t the last time. I know you had a part in that, so thanks. It helps to see pictures of your smiling face. It really does.

The whole depression stage is self-explanatory. My heart breaks again every single time I allow myself to admit that I’ll never see you again, at least not in this lifetime. You were too young to leave us and you know it. We all know it. We will never walk the lakewalk together again. We will never make our annual Barnes & Noble Christmas shopping trip together again. We will never go to the Christmas City of the North parade together again. We will never see Dad’s Duluth again. We will never cruise First Street to look at the bums again. We will never take a fourwheeler ride together again. We will never roast hot dogs at the shack together again. We will never go to mass together again. You will never again tell me just how cold it was this morning (31 below, for the record….I know you’re smiling up there about missing this). You will never again laugh out loud about the County stories I tell you. You will never again tell me just how cute your only grandchild is. You will never read one of my old US Weeklys again. We will never go out for a pitcher of beer and a couple games of pool again. You will never make us your special chicken for lunch on Sunday again. You will never again ask me how work is going. I will never go to another baseball game at Wade Stadium with you. Dad, I want to NEVER forget these things and all the other little things that made our relationship special and made you you. We’re keeping a list of these Fahjisms, adding to them each day and chuckling a little as we do.

The anger stage is also probably self-explanatory, maybe not to an outsider, but it would be to you. This doesn’t feel like the appropriate time for the kind of anger I’m feeling but I can’t help it. Though I know you would encourage me to let it go, I also know that you would understand why I feel it. I will pray that God helps me let go of this anger and maybe you can ask him to help me too. I need all the help I can get.

We went through the bargaining stage in the hospital. We spent hours praying for your recovery, begging God to make you better, promising him that we would go to mass every week if he just makes it so. We bargained with you. As we stood next to you, holding your hand, fighting tears, we begged you to come back by bribing you with the new tv we got you for Christmas, telling you that Beth was going to be driving your new truck at work, reminding you of all the things you promised you'd do and never got around to. In the end, we lost the bargain. We’ll have to return the tv, Beth will probably run your new truck into a tree, and we will have to finish all of your projects and fulfill all of your promises by ourselves. It sucks hard but we will go on because you’d want us to. Please just be there beside us whenever you can. We can feel you with us, Dad, and it makes this a little bit easier.

I guess the last stage, when all the anger and depression and denial fades away, will be acceptance. At this point, I can’t imagine it ever happening but I suppose as the days and months and years pass, it will get a little bit easier. I already find myself wondering how long it will take me to go an entire day without shedding a single tear over losing you. Hell, I should probably be wondering when I will go an entire waking hour without shedding a tear over losing you. Life will never be the same.

Red says hi and asks you to stop by the funeral tomorrow because she thinks you’ll have a pretty strong showing. I think they’ll probably have to shut down the County for the day.

Love,
Angela