I’m just sharing this news now because I didn’t want to be flooded with messages of sorrow while wading knee deep in grief. It takes me a while to process things sometimes.
Writing and photography are my healing tools. If I don’t do one or both, whatever I’m feeling begins to build up and choke me.
So, here we go. The hardest thing I’ve ever had to write:
December 3:
My Daddy had surgery to remove a tumor on his pituitary gland that had grown back after a previous surgery to remove it a few years ago.
It was beginning to impair his vision. The doctor told him if he’d waited two more weeks, he could have been blind.
December 8:
Daddy came home from the hospital and was happy.
December 12:
Daddy was readmitted to the hospital. He couldn’t keep food down and had no energy.
December 15:
The day things fell completely apart.
My father had been put on life support.
I went to see him that night.
The nurse saw my sobs of terror and heartache. She held me with empathy as I cried into her shoulder and she held my hand as we walked to his room.
“You can do this.” She said.
He was so yellow. All of these tubes coming out of him hooked up to machines holding his life together. He was sedated and unable to open his eyes or communicate with me. I don’t know if anyone has ever prayed with him to accept Jesus, and I knew if I did not then I would regret it for the rest of my life.
I held his hand and I prayed with him.
In between my tears, I told him that I’m sorry things have been so distant between us for years and years but that I love him so very much. I told him that we had the Christmas lights put up outside and the candy canes that he gave us a few weeks ago now lined our driveway; that his grandson really loves those.
Daddy always loved Christmas. Growing up, and even until last year, every house he lived in, he always adorned it with Christmas lights and decorations. I remember once in my childhood he recorded himself singing, “We wish you a Merry Christmas” on our answering machine.
He was always a nice guy. He always took my brother and I on cool vacations. He taught me how to ride a bike and tie my shoe. He worked hard. He loved to travel; another thing I get from him.
I saw him every other weekend and on holidays growing up.
He tried to make my room at his house look nice and sweet.
I didn’t show him enough gratitude for trying.
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"Tears will bathe and baptize and hydrate and moisturize you..." (Anne Lamott)
Let it out, Kristin. Let it out.
December 16:
My Daddy was taken off life support.
After praying with him for the second night because I was sure my prayer the first time wasn’t “good enough”, I had to apologize for all those years I treated him like his presence was an inconvenience and ask for his forgiveness. I could never have peace if I didn’t do this.
He had not been responsive to anyone or anything since being put on life support.
I held his hand and talked to him and cried and told him how much I loved him. I think back to when he brought the Christmas decorations to me and as we were standing outside, his eyes caught the sunlight and looked so beautiful that I wanted to photograph them immediately. I didn’t, though, and I regret it. Through my tears, I whisper how I’ll miss seeing his beautiful eyes and that I’m glad I got my eye color from him. I asked him if he could hear me could he please squeeze my hand.
Some time passed and all of a sudden my Daddy began to move and raise his arm while holding my hand.
I lost it. Was there hope?! Was my Daddy coming back?!
After he was taken off life support, my aunt, brother, my husband and I were all by his side to say a final goodbye. I wept while holding his hand and telling him I loved him so much. His eyes were still closed and in between his gasps for air, he was trying to talk. I knew he was trying to say, “I love you.”
Right before we left, HE SQUEEZED MY HAND. Not a light squeeze. A noticeable squeeze.
I thanked him. Kissed his head and left. Never to see him alive again.
When we walked out of the hospital after our final goodbye, I saw this heart on the pavement. I don’t recall it being there when we went in.
December 17:
My Daddy took his last breath sometime around 5:30 in the morning. I forgot to turn on my Christmas lights outside so he could maybe see them as he flew over the earth and up to Heaven. Hopefully he can see them now.
I have cried so much in the past few days that every tear I shed burns my face now.
It aches like no pain I have ever felt. Never to get a call from him, no text, his house is empty, his car never to be driven into my driveway.
Never to hear him say, “I love you, sugar” again.
It took me 23 years and an apology on my Daddy’s death bed to let go of bitterness.
What a waste. I hate myself for allowing it to consume our relationship.
That scar is healing now that I know he heard me and has forgiven me.
I just wish I could hear him one more time.
"There are cracks in everything and that's how the light gets in. And that's how we feel our people again, fully alive." (Anne Lamott)
December 19:
My Daddy’s funeral.
My. Daddy’s. Funeral.
I pull into the rolling hills of Georgia Memorial Park and see the tent. The ever-dreaded green tent that shields your grief from the warm sun.
The tent with chairs I never thought I’d have to sit under so soon, especially not on the front row. Especially not for my Daddy.
We get to see him one last time in the funeral home. He looks alive. He looks healthy. Peaceful. He’s just asleep, right?
Everyone’s voices are muffled.
Why are they talking about the pattern on the floor? Who the hell cares about this ugly floral pattern that looks like something out of a Magic Eye book. My eyes blur with tears as I stare down at the illusion of a happy print, soft piano music playing mournfully in the background.
His body lay in the Rose Room.
Why does it always seem they put them in the Rose Room? Roses are full of thorns that prick you and cause you to bleed pain. I don’t like roses.
We take turns repeating a last goodbye and head outside.
It’s cold. We sit in the winter wind beneath the green tent with my Daddy closed tight in his final resting bed. Amazing Grace plays and I hear my aunt lose it.
It’s over now.
The sun is shining now and the sky is blue, whereas in the days prior it was coated gray with tears falling down.
I breathe a long inhale, remembering his voice. I exhale remembering the squeeze of his hand.
I feel peace.
On the long drive back home, the most beautiful sky appears. My husband and I pull over and I take out my camera. As soon as I review the images, I see it… the formation of a heart right there in the middle of the sun. Something not visible with the naked eye. My Daddy always loved pictures, he was the family documentarian; something I believe he passed onto me, also. This moment was a gift from him to me. I fully believe that. If you guys follow me on social media, you know I find hearts in everyyyything.
This picture below means everything to me.
It all happened so fast.
I know grief will continue to roll in like waves in the ocean; at times slow and steady, other times violent and rushing.
I know I just have to let it come
and then
let it go.
So, while this Christmas will surly feel quite empty without him, I know he’d want us all to enjoy being with family on one of his favorite holidays.
I love you, Daddy. More than you ever knew.
