Dad . . .

Photo composition by Jason Packard

I’m not sure what to write about today – my mind keeps drifting back to my dad – he died 36 years ago this Monday, January 9^th,  and 36 years ago we were keeping vigil in the hospital hoping against all hope that he would survive and stay with us longer. He didn’t. I was devastated. I was lost. I was angry, and I was in a free fall – the first true free fall of my life. He died my parent; we were just starting to become friends – we were just starting to see each other as ‘real’ people.

I’ve missed him every single day of my life – but in an odd way, his death was the first stage of my emotional birth. He was a force larger than life. His pedestal was way out of my league, but everything I did was shrouded by what Dad would think. Sometimes I relished rebelling and shocking him. Sometimes I basked in his appreciation. Always, what I did was measured against the man.

After the shock and deep grief subsided I realized for the first time in my life that I was going to have to do things according to what I wanted…there was no one but me to impress, rebel against, or appreciate. I didn’t have a clue to how to begin to live my life for me – just me. I hadn’t had time to practice ‘me’.

Ironically, I don’t ever remember him being a mentor – making suggestions or giving advice. But truthfully, I might have trained him quite early that I don’t accept advice or help – his favorite story was of my 2 year old self refusing assistance demanding in no uncertain terms “I do it myself!” I’d like to think that we are much alike, this giant and me – we’ve just traveled different roads.

So the bitter sweet thoughts of my Dad are: “Thanks for moving over and letting me find my voice and my own truth – but damn. Dad….I sure would have loved to have you around longer”. Of course, I do realize that he is here with me, right now and always has been so I’ll reframe that and say: ”Here’s to you Dad, thanks for everything.”