For Dad- 2015

I can divide my life into BDD and ADD.  BDD is Before Dad Died.  ADD is every day since January 12, 1999.   Each year, I try to honor him by writing something, by sitting down and spending a solid day remembering the man that taught me to fly, first by lifting me onto his feet during leg presses, then by throwing me out over the deep end of the pool while I laughed and flailed my tiny arms.  And finally, by leaving this world way too soon, so I had to learn to soar and dip on my own, no giant arms or pool below to catch me.

BDD I was a happy-go-lucky kid.  I had an idyllic childhood.  My parents were high school sweethearts, able to finish each others' stories and sentences with a grin or a look.  Mom made dinner every night, and we sat together discussing our days, dad to my right, mom to my left, my little sister across from me making faces.  Dad coached my soccer team until we needed more trained guidance, and then he was our manager, bellowing encouragement from the sidelines and analyzing game plans on long car rides while Les Miserables or The Grateful Dead blared out of the speakers.  We watched operas on PBS, Twilight Zone marathons on the WB, and took summer road trips as a family in progressively larger vehicles.

I was a typical teenager, an elite athlete, a hopeless romantic.  I knew about life and death, sure, we'd studied those in health class and my great-grandfather died when I was 6.  But I hadn't lost anyone close to me, and felt like that was something that happens when you get older, when the parents around you turn grey, and your grandparents start to forget things.  Relationships were taken for granted, the pulse-quickening drama taking the place of the desire for happiness, always thinking there was another chance out there, another shot at love or school or soccer.

It was college, sophomore year, and after having my heart broken twice in a summer, I had friends back from my childhood, girlfriends that had reconnected thanks to the beauty of the internet, and my anger at men in general for being mean and hurtful- every man except my dad, of course.  He gave me hope, sharing something with my mom that was making each other laugh and dancing in the kitchen in their pajamas.  He made me laugh, he loved me unconditionally, he fought for me.

I thought we had all the time in the world.

Fast forward to a little after 10 PM on a Tuesday night.  The phone rang and I knew something was wrong.  I won't rehash the details- I don't want to right now, and I know I'm going to have to someday, but that someday is a little ways off right now.

After that, it was ADD- After Dad Died.

I was depressed.  A doctor gave me several antidepressants, and at one point I was on a Xanax a day, to the point where they stopped making me feel tired.  I gave up on this drug-induced haze after my aunt died, and I couldn't cry.  I wanted to.  Crumpling to the floor in my mom's kitchen, my back sliding against the custom cabinets next to the pantry, my body suppressed the reaction it should have had, and I decided I needed to ween myself off.  Group therapy at my college helped, crying for an hour straight every Wednesday with a group of semi-strangers with little in common beyond the wail of grief.  I took on a mothering role to my friends at school, excelling in my classes (my temporary escape), cleaning up after drunken friends post-party in town houses, and throwing myself into the Student Government Association (SGA became my one respite from a college I desperately wanted to transfer away from- I had a close girlfriend, two buddies since freshman year, and a good looking older guy who sat next to me and laughed at all the right moments).

I grabbed on to what I could.  I threw myself into school as a distraction. My GPA skyrocketed.  I threw myself back into an on-again-off-again relationship that had long since ended, clinging to some fear that if I didn't, I'd lose someone else I cared about.  This was perpetuated by a friend saying that maybe my dad had sent this guy back as a way of taking care of me.  I wanted desperately to believe that, ignoring all the warning signs of a bad relationship in favor of the supernatural.  I was terrified of death, of being left alone, of missing out on something.

There were some positives to ADD after a few years. Never having lost him- for all the good that has come of the transformation I experienced, if I could go back and make him live, and still end up with my kids, I would (I know the Butterfly Effect way too well, and I don't think I can have both, but if there was a way, I'd take it).

But I took chances.  I drove to California chasing several dreams, and left there some years later with different ones begun.  I told people I cared about them.  I sought out advice from trusted old friends, reconnecting to people I cared deeply for using the steadily increasing social media streams.  I found that no matter how much time passes, people who loved you once will always love you.  I stopped taking people and relationships for granted, and started trying to live in the moment and appreciate each tick of the clock.

It's been 16 years.  The pain of losing him is duller most of the time, but at others, it's so pronounced it physically hurts.  "Salty Dog" comes on the radio, and I smile, but my eyes water.  A hundred times a day, I think of something and wonder what he'd say if I could tell him about it.  But since I can't, I call my mom, or talk to my stepdad, or call my sister or my husband.  And if I see something that reminds me of a friend, I make sure to take a second to share it with them on Facebook, or send them an email, or a text or call them on the phone.  I invite people I haven't seen in years to parties, or out to coffee, or to watch a football game.  Because time isn't unlimited, and 16 years can go by in a flash while we learn to fly, arms flailing in the wind.

My thoughts on this piece: This was more therapeutic than anything, and I needed to get it out.  I'll probably polish it some day, but it's down for now, and that's what counts (sort of).  There are too many sentences that start with I, too much focus on me.  I think I'm bitter because it's been 16 years, and while I can remember his laugh, his voice is hazy.  His arms were strong, and he had wavy hair.  It was a bright orange curly fro when he was younger, but by the time he had me, it was duller, whiter, shorter.  He made me laugh- a lot.  And then, when he was gone, I cried more than I ever thought I could.