It has been two years -to the date- that my dad passed away. I have to wonder if it will ever feel normal, yet I already know the answer.
The answer is no.
*My experiences are my own. We all feel, think, grieve, care, deal, process, ad nauseum, in various ways. In my consciousness of understanding this, I want anyone reading to know that however & whatever you feel is validated, but my post is about how I feel, my situation, my validation.*
January 14, 2020
The above day is a stain on my calendar.
Nobody likes stains, which is why I chose the reference. As much a I try to remember the positive and scrub the stain, like everyone tells me I should, this day represents a horrible history in my record book that cannot be forgotten and the stain is indefinitely visible. To be honest, it cannot be cleaned, nor forgotten.
Though the date seems like a negative thing to remember, I now do not 'quite' believe it is. It is with death that we sincerely remember.
Dad's life: June 1st, 1963 - January 14, 2020 ~ he was 58 at his passing.
In 2021, a year after his death, I told myself that I would only look at positive dates, and memorialize only such (birthdays, happy times, happy memories, etc,). It is easier said than done.
Just days ago, Bob Saget had passed away. Love him or hate him, Danny Tanner was my TV dad, just like he was for millions of other 1990s children. It really bothered me that for someone so pivotal in turn of the century time-ish, for an entire generation of youth, he really only received national praise and an outpouring of love upon death.
But I guess I am guilty of the same.
Death brings out the memories. It becomes a slow churning tug of all cognitive instances that were buried deep, on the surface, or even within the super fresh mind. You cannot help but to recognize every memory until you are involuntarily forced. They do not come at once. They roll in like waves. Small moments. Big milestones. And everything in between.
But know that not a single day has gone by that I have not see his dead body lying before me in my memory. Sorry. The morbid truth is not always blue skies and rainbows above a pretty cemetery. I can picture him alive, don't get me wrong. I see him alive more often than not. But the truth I shadow for others is my final memory of him: dead.
I remain shattered. Since day one, I've had frequent, sweaty nightmares about saving him. Sometimes my car problems begin to boil and I and need his gearhead opinion, but he's gone. When my son graduated in May of 2021, I accidentally made out a graduation invite to him. We just purchased our first home, and I needed advice from dad on certain tools, yet momentarily forgot in that instance that I can no longer ask. I have a burning question about my father's birth that only he or my grandmother would know, yet I can't ask neither of the two. My sister is about to have her third child who will never get to meet dad, nor will he meet her.
It never gets normal.
None of it.
So as much as I want to remember all of the good, happy, alive moments, his death is now a part of my memory of him. It cannot be avoided.
But I am no longer overcome with sadness about his death day. I have swallowed the bitter pill that death is inevitable for all and we cannot preserve life, no matter how hard we try. However, we can preserve the memory of life.
If it wasn't that day, it'd be another. If it wasn't that reason, it'd be another.
I no longer question why, or scream that it's unfair. It may sound completely startling to say, but I now find peace in his death. I no longer worry about his health, his well-being, if his crazy ex girlfriend is sucking his account dry, if he's safe, if he's happy, if he's able to make rent, if he's in jail.
There is comfort in his death that I couldn't initially grasp, but have since.
I know where he is, I know he's at rest, and because of January 14, 2020, a massive part of my being, my heart, is at rest as well.
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