The importance of daddies

I mentioned earlier this month that my father had passed away.  I have accepted this fact, and I continue to grieve his absence in the world. I try to do it quietly for the reasons that loss of a loved one is personal, I'm usually private about my own feelings, and I am not good at accepting sympathy.  It's just going to be hard and strange and weird. I know this. I don't want to inflict it on other people.    It just takes time to adapt to the reality that your daddy isn't available any more.

My dad was 65. In this era of modern medicine, that is not very old.  People have said "Oh, that's so young!" and it is. And too soon.  And not fair.  What they don't know is all of the history that I know about my dad.  That he had to help support his younger siblings because his own father was an abusive alcoholic.  That he spent some critical developmental years with poor nutrition.  That he served as an artillery gunner in Vietnam, exposed to war, death, chemicals and fear at an age when most young people are considering colleges and careers. He smoked to stay calm.  He worked as a welder when he came back.  He used his body entirely up in order to provide for the family he made with my mom.  

He was sometimes cranky, short tempered, easily annoyed when he thought his kids should already know how to do something,  prone to seeing what WASN'T finished instead of seeing the things already complete. He was not quick to praise.  He was gruff.  But he always loved us, and we always knew it.  He had a ridiculously soft spot for animals, fast cars, and songs from the 50's & 60's - especially Buddy Holly, Elvis, and the Everly Brothers.  He always sang along, off key, and loudly,  and he didn't care.  I loved that. I miss that.

So I am missing my dad.  But I would not wish him back.  He retired from mining and welding after 30 years.  He had heart disease, high blood pressure, kidney failure, intestinal polyps and ulcers,  and COPD.  He'd had 3 heart attacks, 5 stents, a triple bypass, a valve replacement, and a ridiculous number of blood transfusions.  He was tired all the time.  He did everything he was able to do to keep his home running, until the only things he could do were go to get the mail, and wash the breakfast dishes, and that was enough in day.  He was too young to die,  but his body was too old to keep living.

My dad's death certificate says that he died of respiratory failure, which is true.  He just got too weak to keep breathing on his own.  What it doesn't say is that he fought for a month to get better, to stay alive, to keep trying to be there for my mom.  He loved her and didn't want her to have to miss him.  "I love you, Sarah. I'm so sorry."  was the last thing he could say to her.   It is a wonderful, heartbreaking thing to see that kind of love between parents - and feels like a rare and precious thing to me that I could witness that moment.

I had to say goodbye to my daddy this year. It is hard. It is horrible. It was time.   I don't want him to come back, because I love him.  I don't want to ever forget all of the things I learned from him about life, and what love looks like when you never learned how to show love as a dad.   I think the most important one was this - love is an action verb, and if you use up your whole life in that action - it was a damn good life.