Before & After
- 10
- 05
- 10
Dad
{Before}
We are still without Internet access chez Rowley. So, I’m at Starbucks again. And another late post.
And it will be a short one too because I must pick up Toddler from school in twenty minutes. But this tiny post means something to me. It must be written.
I went to sleep last night, on my thirty-second birthday, and I was in emotional tangles. First of all, I was shredded with exhaustion after our trip west this weekend. On top of that, I was still riding the bliss from the news we received yesterday morning that our baby is healthy and is a girl (yay!). But. Yes, there is a but. There always is.
I also felt a tug. Of something else. Something more complicated than sadness, but in that family. I couldn’t figure it out. I was too tired to figure it out. But there was an uneasiness, an emptiness, a gray layer to my day’s end. Thankfully, I fell asleep quickly and slept soundly. Thankfully, my girls treated us to a post-7am wake-up this morning. (I promptly rewarded them with two candy corns each.)
I woke up and it all made sense. Today is October 5th. The day after my birthday.
The day everything changed.
Three years ago today, I got a call from Mom. She told me Dad had been diagnosed with stomach cancer. I raced home and hugged her. We Donnelley girls congregated around that antique dining table. My life was shattered that day. And, here, today, Dad is gone, his absence still felt deeply, and I am still picking up pieces. Still sad. Still missing him.
I became pregnant with Baby after Dad was diagnosed. The news that we were expecting our second child seemed to cheer him up. I hoped, and foolishly, he would hang on until she arrived. But he didn’t. The cancer cells and Mother Nature had other plans. He left us when I was six months pregnant. But he was around when I found out that Baby was a girl. I remember that day well. I went over to my childhood home to tell him the news.
It’s a girl, Dad.
He smiled. That irreverent and impossible and impish smile I will never forget.
Girls are good, said this man, this father of five girls.
Yes, they are.
*
Well, Dad, we are having another. Another girl. Can you believe it? I’m sure you can, actually. Wherever you are. And I have no doubt that she will have your eyes too. Deep and blue and full of life. Just like her big sisters do.
We all miss you. Even those of us who never met you and never will.
*
And so. That’s it. Mystery solved. It’s October 5th. Just another day that’s not just another day. A day full of sneaky pain. Pain that humbles me now in my corner of Starbucks. Pain which sustains me also. And makes me remember Before. Pain which I wouldn’t trade.
Time to live my life, keep living my life in the After. Time to get my big girl from school.
Everyone struggles and...
Your posts about your dad are so telling about the nature of loss. They sneak up on me. Just when things are getting really joyful – filled with birthdays and babies and candy corn – I come over here and find myself blind-sided with your pain. And that makes me realize what such loss must feel like for you all the time. It’s always there, sometimes more prevalent than others, and sneaky, just as you said.
I can’t help but suspect that your parents intentionally waited until after your birthday to deliver the bad news about your dad’s diagnosis. Which makes me believe that they wanted your birthday to be a good one, unburdened by sadness or fear. As each October rolls around I hope you’ll bear that in mind and enjoy your birthdays. For that is clearly what your dad wanted. I know that October 5th may always bring an air of pain with it, but hopefully that will only happen after October 4th has been filled to the brim with joy. XOXO
Gale – Thanks, as always, for your words today. It turns out that my parents received word of the diagnosis on the morning of the 5th. So there was no waiting to tell us. The amazing thing is how Dad reacted. He attended a duck decoy auction across down, an event he had been looking forward to. So when I arrived home, it was just Mom and sisters and sundry brothers-in-law. Dad, tellingly, was off living his life.
I do think though that there is something compelling about the contrast here. That my birthday, a joyful time, is followed so swiftly by such a complicated and sad day. The contrast is welcome in my life. Without this sadness, this shakiness, I am not sure the joy would be as exquisite when it arrives. Does that make sense?
Yes. It makes both perfect and imperfect sense. It seems strange to want the shadows in order to make the sunshine brighter by comparison, but I want it too sometimes. Sometimes we human creatures want things that feel counterintuitive. It is both a privilege and a burden to be so complex.
My mom died of cancer 5 years ago. I remember the day everything changed down to the last detail. I also the remember the date. Febuary 15th, the day after my first Valentine’s day with my now husband. Always a reminder of the good and the bad. I am now pregnant with my second little girl. My mom never met our first. So hard to think about all they are missing. Hang in there. Just wanted you to know your post really touched me. It made me remember her.
I am glad that I made you remember your mother. I know that I am always thankful for the reminders, the triggers, that bring pain, yes, but with that pain, a tremendous sense of love and life too. Thank you for your comment. And I am sorry for your own loss. Five years is both long and short, no?
When you write about your dad it always resonates with me. The pain of losing my dad is so painful. My thoughts go out to you. I would like to think that your dad is watching you. I would like to think that he knows that your having another girl and that he is pleased. He will be forever loved and remembered by you and your girls.
My best friend used the word “bittersweet” for her father’s eulogy and it took losing my own father to really understand just how bitter and sweet could coexist. Once loss has entered your life, isn’t everything bittersweet? I know what you mean about “sneaky sadness”. I know just what you felt last night when you were going to sleep. You have to remember your dad’s smile because he would be smiling at your news without a doubt.
I love how you wrote this so swiftly and honestly.
SO happy for you and your healthy baby girl.
I’m sorry for the sneaky sadness and the vacant place you feel in you and around you where your dad should be. I really am.
I remember when this change happened to me in my life. There are days when I feel that gray layer, looking for some place to put it, but unable to do so. Thinking of you Aidan and wishing you some peace today. xoxo
This one literally brought tears to my eyes. I adore my own dad so–I can’t imagine the loss! Congrats on the third baby girl. I’m sure your dad is quite proud!
Hugs to you today, friend. Hugs for the intermingled joy and sadness.
I’m so familiar with pain I wouldn’t trade … sending love to you today on this bittersweet day.
xo
I am amazed that you wrote that in 20 minutes. Even if it had taken you 20 hours, you write like the wind, my dear! I always love stopping by here. Your words make me think & feel & wonder. So thanks for that. xoxo
My father passed away from cancer 3 years ago, Sept. 25. It is a loss that stays with me all the time.
I still have his non-working cell phone number programmed in my phone. Ya know… for those times I wish I could call him.
((hugs))
My sister took over my dad’s cell after he passed. I called one day and it went to voicemail; my dad speaking his own name. One of those sneaky, bittersweet moments. Hard to hear that voice and know he was gone.
Aidan, I’m sure there is a place where all fathers look down on their girls (and boys). My dad goes there sometimes, and I can feel his presence in my life now, with the husband he never got to meet. I’m sure your dad does the same.
These anniversaries never leave us. They are bittersweet echoes of loss. But also enormous love. That is the legacy we try to hang onto, isn’t it?
It’s been 23 years since my father’s passing. As T said, the loss stays.
My father is so much a part of me, and my life – on certain days especially. And when I look at my elder son who resembles him so strongly, and who bears his name.
Beautiful post. It is funny how life can turn on a dime. I am especially inspired by your father’s reaction to such terrible news. It speaks volumes that he continued with what he had planned (and looked forward to) that day. He taught you that life shouldn’t stop even under terrible circumstances. And you have clearly absorbed that lesson and demonstrate that every day for your girls.
I’ve never forgotten the day and how it played out. And it hurts the same way it did 8 years ago. I’ve described this to friends who have lost a parent that it’s just simply something you cannot understand until you go through it. And, it’s the little things that can suddenly spur your memory, and the pain.
Like you, I feel lucky to have had such a wonderful Dad. The father/daughter bond is unique and special. I’m not sure I will ever be ready to lose my Dad. But then again, I think your posts indicate that we never really lose these special people. Even though they may leave the earth they are always with us. XXX Amy
You know…it’s funny. My dad was diagnosed with esophageal cancer three years ago. Thankfully I think, I don’t remember the exact date, only that it was in July. I remember every single detail about that day except the date. I remember checking my voicemail and hearing the sadness in my mom’s voice as she told me to call her back as soon as I could. I remember that I was sitting it a little cafe in a town about an hour away from home because I had driven a coworker out there to tour another facility. I remember that we had gotten there early and were waiting on the others (who included my husband). I remember not wanting to tell her (the coworker) what I had learned while she was in the bathroom and trying to hide my fear and sadness as I ate my grilled cheese. After I ate (aka played with my food long enough), I took my husband (then fiance) outside to the truck and burst into tears as I told him the news. He told me to go. To call my sister and go as quickly as possible to be with them. My family. For the doctor’s appointment the next day. I called my sister next and we cried together. I told her I was coming back to town and we would go to them (across the state…of Texas). I stopped by my office and cried with my boss as he did everything he could for me…sat, listened, offered the company jet for us even, and then told me not to worry about work. Just to go. Sister and I booked a flight for that evening, packed, and went to the airport. At our layover in Dallas, we hurried to beat the other passengers to a gate for an earlier connection. We did, and then we ate cheeseburgers from McDonald’s in the airport…only there was no cheese on them! And then we flew, and mom and brother-in-law picked us up, and there wasn’t as much sadness as I had expected…there was laughter and happiness to see family. We talked and we slept, and then we started a new day.
There were a lot of sad days in there for a few months, sprinkled with moments of joy…my wedding (for which Dad waited to start his treatment) and the relief of new doctors and good progress. And finally, the surgery, and the survival. Things did change that day that I remember so well, but not in the same way that yours did. But it could have, and I suppose that’s why I remember it so well. Only not the date.
I’m so sorry for your loss, Aidan.
Dear friend, all I can say is I understand.
xo
I know I’ve been very out of touch lately, but I’m here… sending you a big hug. I’m sorry these days are filled with such mixed emotion. Your words are amazing. Your heart is full of love. Your dad is definitely smiling upon your news. xo
Wow. I know that pain. I still have my daddy, but I lost my grandpa, who was like a daddy to me. It will be 10 years this December 26. They say that time heals all wounds, but I don’t really believe that. The pain is always there. Sometimes strong, sometimes dull. But it is still there. The sadness will catch me at times when I am least expecting it. I know how you feel. My grandpa never saw me walk down the aisle, and he never got to meet my husband. Life goes on. I know that my grandpa is always with me, and your dad is always with you. They would want us to be happy and rejoice in the little things. I hope that this pain doesn’t hurt as much as time goes on…..