As of today, my father has been dead two years. It's still hard for me to believe. On the one hand, because he had Parkinson's disease for at least 9 years, I got used to the fact that he was going to die and I did a majority of my grieving prior to his actual death. On the other hand, nothing truly prepares you for the death of a loved one.
On this anniversary last year, I was composed and calm, because I had just found out that my friend's own father, who had struggled with Parkinson's disease her entire life, had died. I was strong so that I could be there for her, lending her the support and love she needed.
This year, however, has been a different story. As the day has approached, I've become more and more introspective, remembering things about my father that I hadn't thought about in (what seemed like) forever. When D and I moved in together, I grew teary-eyed as I mourned the fact that my dad will never get to meet the most important person in my life. When I come across a horribly ugly but fitting Garfield t-shirt in my pajama drawer that my dad used to wear practically every weekend, I find myself wistfully smiling and wishing he were still around to wear it, as threadbare as it is. When I hear a really bad joke or see a clever comic, I think of how my father would have appreciated the humor, however distasteful, allowing his face to break out in a huge, slightly lopsided grin as he gave me a joyful thumbs-up.
I'm sure I don't have to tell you that I'm sobbing as I type up this post.
I know that as more time passes, my thoughts and memories will meld into a positive feeling that I can simply attribute to a man that raised me years ago, but right now my feelings are still raw and painful, and I think I miss him more than ever.
I wrote a post on the day he died. You can read it here.
My friend Janessa recently wrote a post about her own thoughts on the second anniversary of her father's death. Read it here.
|Daddy with my Japanese sister, her friend, and me (2009)|