I miss my dad.
It’s been five months since he passed.
It feels like forever.
I thought losing him was hard. I was wrong. Missing him is worse. Picking up the phone to call him before remembering he can’t answer. Walking into my parent’s house knowing he won’t be there to greet me. Celebrating anything without him there.
We just had our baby shower last weekend. It was beautiful. Friends and family all gathered to celebrate new life. It was everything Jenny and I had dreamed it would be. We felt so loved, so supported. We may have gone overboard and invited more than 100 people… But every last one of them has been so supportive this past year and beyond. We just wanted to say thank you and celebrate this moment with each and every one of them.
Even on a perfect day, surrounded by so many loving people, it was hard not having my dad or Penny there with us. On the morning of the shower, I felt their absence so strongly. I miss them so much at times it physically hurts. Some days I can’t look at their pictures for fear I’ll break. Other times, I find it helps to lean into those pangs. Scroll through my photos and let the tears well up. Play a sad song and cry it out. It doesn’t fix anything, but it helps. A Band-Aid on a deep cut.
We’re beyond excited to welcome Emmett into this world. I can’t begin to describe the anticipation and joy. But I had always imagined my dad being here, being a part of our children’s lives. I pictured him talking to every single person at our baby shower, waiting with baited breath in the lobby of the hospital while Jenny gave birth, stopping by the house to see if we needed anything, but secretly just wanting to hold the little bean again. I mourn the loss of my dad, but I also mourn the loss of future memories. Sleepovers at Grandpa’s, pancake breakfasts at the firehouse, way too many toys on their birthday and Christmas. Lost dreams. Extinguished potential.
An object in motion remains in motion. An object at rest remains at rest.
Today would have been my dad’s 69th birthday. My mom, Jenny, and I are going to a White Sox game tonight in remembrance. I’m planning to have a hot dog with “ketchup only” in his honor. I may immediately follow it up with a Chicago-style hot dog to counteract it, but it’s the thought that counts. While it hurts not to have him there with us, it brings me joy to do things that he loved. Moments like this provide healing, while simultaneously being quite painful. Like picking at a scab, I’m re-opening the wound. There’s a weird catharsis to it. Or maybe I’m just afraid to let the wound fully heal.
We’re only six weeks out from Jenny’s scheduled c-section. Forty-two days till the arrival of our son. I’d give anything for Emmett to have met his grandpa, but I’ll do my best to make sure that he knows him and how much he would have loved him.
Happy Birthday, Dad. I love you.
