Saturday night

The really bad days are preceded by something small. Part of a story that I can't remember in the retelling and need to ask Dad about. Picking up the phone to call Dad after work to tell him about an interesting patient. Preparing for Europe and realizing that he won't be there. Looking over at Amy's father driving the ski boat and knowing that my father will not get to teach my children how to water ski.

The sadness is getting more intense it seems. There was the acute grief and the agony of trying to make it through the days. Feeling like I would never be able to return to work only to find myself there going through the motions day after day. The four week anniversary was painful, but the six week anniversary (this week) was devastating. I was on the floor of my office at work on Wednesday morning and the floor of the art/workout room at home on Thursday night. And I mean on the floor, literally, collapsed in agony. I find this stage strangely comforting. The week of the accident was a flurry of activity that I wanted to end, but yet dreaded because that meant an official end to my father as a living being. The following weeks were filled with survival. Getting back to work, trying to answer the telephone, writing thank you notes, driving back and forth from Nashville, surviving the pain of my patient's stories and hearts. Yet, in that survival period, I felt okay at times. I was busy, I was forgetful, I was hanging on. And now, this week it feels that my heart has truly broken into pieces. Hundreds of pieces of sharp pain that are scraping my insides, searing my throat, and only finding peace in the release of tears melting into the carpet.

I did expect my father to die sometime in the very near future. He was hoping to live through the cruise. I was hoping for that. And then for Snowmass in February. And then the birth of my first child. And then the birth of my second child. I wanted the cruise really badly with dad, but I do realize that I wanted so many more moments and days and years and memories and dances. Jackie said that my children would have been his favorite. I believe that. Two years ago I was just hoping that he would make it through my wedding. And he did. What a party it was. I found out from my mother that dad had all of his dance moves written down on note cards and he would study them. That is so like my father. So determined. So dedicated. So secretive about the amount of care and work he put into things. I don't actually know any of the dance moves on my own. I always followed him as the woman should in dancing. He liked that I let him led each dance.

I am thankful that dad's death was not a complete surprise to me. The manner of death was a surprise, but not the death. Dad was really sick. He was really hurting and that broke my heart for him. He worked so hard for so many years to show up at retirement and feel crummy all of the time. It's been interesting to me that pain allows others to share their pain. My neighbor shared that her father died in a car accident when she was 30. My coworker shared that her father died of a heart attack when she was 14. I get jealous at times that most of my friend's fathers are still living. But then, I remember that I had my father 16 years longer than my coworker had hers and I am thankful. Minutes after dad's death, my brother, Brad, told me that he wished I could have had another 10 years with dad [like he had]. I do too, Brad. I do too.