Before my father got sick, I was on a super self-improvement plan. I had no boyfriend, started working out and keeping track of what I ate, and even stopped drinking so much. I was feeling so good--on top of the world, as they say.
When I heard my father was sick, and went home to visit, I did not walk or run, lift weights, or even eat. I dropped another five pounds. Good, I guess, but not the way I wanted to do it. And then when my father passed away, it was like the self-improvement stuff seemed self-indulgent. Why should I try to improve me while my father is fighting just to take some deep breaths?
When my brother Tony was killed twenty-five years ago, my father was in his early 40s, like me. He said that before Tony's death, he had felt "on top of the world." He was a successful business man, two of his kids were adults, and he had a nice house, wife, and young son to raise. My brother's untimely death in a motorcycle accident dimmed the sparkle in my father's eye--he was humbled in a way he never had been before.
I never imagined how vulnerable I would feel after my father's death. He was a best friend to me, more like an older brother than a father.
Most people are consumed by regret when someone dies. "If only I would have spent more time with them," or "I never got to say good-bye," or "I never shared how much I loved them," and so on. My father passed away knowing how much I loved him because I told him every day while he was sick. I kissed his head, helped take care of him, and told him he was the "best dad in the world." My last words to him were "I love you so much," and his last words to me were "I love you so much too."
Last night, I finally dragged my hind-end (and the rest of me) to the gym and ran three plus miles. I realized that I am not consumed by regret for loose ends that weren't tied between my father and me. What saddens me is having to move forward in my life without my best friend.
When I heard my father was sick, and went home to visit, I did not walk or run, lift weights, or even eat. I dropped another five pounds. Good, I guess, but not the way I wanted to do it. And then when my father passed away, it was like the self-improvement stuff seemed self-indulgent. Why should I try to improve me while my father is fighting just to take some deep breaths?
When my brother Tony was killed twenty-five years ago, my father was in his early 40s, like me. He said that before Tony's death, he had felt "on top of the world." He was a successful business man, two of his kids were adults, and he had a nice house, wife, and young son to raise. My brother's untimely death in a motorcycle accident dimmed the sparkle in my father's eye--he was humbled in a way he never had been before.
I never imagined how vulnerable I would feel after my father's death. He was a best friend to me, more like an older brother than a father.
Most people are consumed by regret when someone dies. "If only I would have spent more time with them," or "I never got to say good-bye," or "I never shared how much I loved them," and so on. My father passed away knowing how much I loved him because I told him every day while he was sick. I kissed his head, helped take care of him, and told him he was the "best dad in the world." My last words to him were "I love you so much," and his last words to me were "I love you so much too."
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