Here Comes That Handsome Man
I wrote the blog post below a couple of weeks ago with intentions of sharing it on my dad’s heaven anniversary. But here we are – almost two weeks later. I second guessed myself and if I should post it or not.
It was cathartic to write it, but I worried that people would read and ask “I thought Rise and Shine on Purpose was supposed to be uplifting?”
Well, yes, I started Rise and Shine on Purpose to be a place of positivity. However, I promised I would keep it real and my feelings (especially about my dad) are very real.
I also wanted this to be a place about connection.
Maybe me writing AND pushing the post button will connect with someone…somewhere…sometime…somehow.
“Here comes that handsome man.”
Those are the words I would say with a grin to my kindergarten teacher, Mrs. Council, as my dad turned into the school parking lot in his hunter green 1988 Ford Bronco and wearing his police uniform.
Over 30 years later, and the memory is still so clear.
As August 8, 2020 approached, I reflected on more memories as it marked 14 years since my dad passed away. It was a beautiful, sunny day in North Carolina, but there was a dark cloud that loomed over me.
I always struggle this time of year as I replay the days leading up to his passing.
I remember him going through 72 hours straight of chemo before coming home on July 31 as we prepared for hospice. We ate taco casserole (one of his favorites) for dinner in my parents’ bedroom on August 2. And on August 4, I had just gotten back from lunch with a co-worker when my mom called and said the ambulance was coming to take him back to the hospital.
His blood sugar was really low and she couldn’t get it regulated.
It ended up being more serious than we thought.
That Sunday, on August 6 we watched our last NASCAR race together. It was the Brickyard 400 and Jimmie Johnson won. We used to watch NASCAR together and he was so excited when that was my first gig out of college.
Later that evening, my mom and I were going to head home and try to get some rest. It was rare that my mom left the hospital, but I had convinced her to go home that night. Before we left though, something seemed off. While my dad wasn’t responding and hadn’t been throughout the weekend, he seemed to be really uncomfortable. We had the nurses check him and then the doctors arrived.
He had to be intubated. Right there. In front of us. As they went to quickly roll him off to ICU, they reassured us it was to allow his body to rest and he’d be okay.
He wasn’t okay though. He didn’t get better. He didn’t leave the ICU.
On Tuesday, August 8 just past 11:30am, we watched him take his last breath underneath an NC State blanket he had given me for Christmas one year. It wasn’t like the movies or what I watched on shows like ER or Grey’s Anatomy. When he was taken off life support, we didn’t have days or hours. We literally had less than a minute.
Even if you have time to try and prepare yourself, you’re never ready to let go of someone you love. I remember panicking as his breaths began to slow and I grabbed his leg like I was bracing for impact in a car crash.
I wasn’t ready. It was happening too quick. I wanted longer. I needed longer.
I didn’t have longer.
He was gone.
That handsome man was gone.
No more funny jokes. No more “Guess what Boo Boo? I love you.”
There was so much more I wanted to experience with him and not only the big milestones in life like having him walk me down the aisle on my wedding day. I wanted the simple, every day experiences.
I wanted to drink another Cheerwine together. I wanted to sit with him on the front porch while he watered the yard with a garden hose. I wanted to see his blue eyes. I wanted to take another trip to the beach or the mountains. I wanted to laugh as he tried to dance. I wanted to watch him crumble an entire sleeve of saltine crackers into one bowl of tomato soup.
While my heart has been healing over the past 14 years, it’s still broken. There are days it feels hardened by bitterness and days when when it feels softened by incompleteness.
It’s an ongoing struggle and difficult journey, but I have (with time) found some perspective.
I didn’t lose my dad at 23. I had 23 years of love, laughter, and wonderful memories. I experienced what some people may only get to see from a distance and not actually feel or know.
Grief is universal. Yet we all handle it differently.
For those grieving, I feel you and I’m here for you.
For those that know someone who is grieving, meet them where and how they are.
For everyone, love hard and make a trail of beautiful memories.
