Waiting for Daddy
- 06
- 30
- 11
I was going through the photos on my computer and I found these. I took them the morning Husband was due to arrive home from Buffalo. The girls waited in the window for Daddy. Something strikes me about this image. Seeing them there staring out, bodies bent with anticipation and longing, is both wonderful and devastating. Wonderful because it is a depiction of deep love. But devastating because this is so often how I feel. Like I am waiting for Dad.
When Husband arrived home, he parked his suitcase by the door and the girls climbed him like a tree. He hugged them, and Little Girl, and me. It was a happy moment.
But I will not have that happy moment, that anticipated reunion. Dad will not come down the steps, the loose change clanking in his khakis, flashing his mustache-obscured and incomparable smile. He will not fumble for his keys while he hums some opera, and come through the door and capture me in a hug.
I know these things. This is reality. But still, on some level, I will always be that little girl waiting, my legs curled under me on the windowsill of my world.
It’s been almost three years. Will this ever change? I hope so.
And I hope not.
________________________________________
Is the death of a loved one something you ever get over? Do you ever find yourself waiting for the return of those you’ve lost? Do you think it makes sense that I both want my wounds to heal and remain open?
These words speak to me. I will always wait. It is my way of holding on
to my Dad. xoxo
Rudri – As is the case whenever I write about my Dad, I am a bit hesitant about publishing. I wonder whether others really want to glimpse my grief. I wonder whether such musings are too maudlin. But then I realize that so many of us have dealt with, and are dealing with, such loss and that it is important to honor this incredibly universal experience. I actually thought of you before publishing this. I thought: Rudri will understand. And it is wonderful – and understandable – to know you do. It is heartening to know that there are others out there “waiting” alongside me. xox
It’s not something you get over, but I have found it’s less sharp as the years pass by.
For some reason, after my Dad passed, whenever I was struggling with his death, or feeling I needed him more than usual, I always seem to spot a rainbow up in the sky. When I moved to the farm (a place he’d never seen…he never met hubby) there was a fantastic double rainbow. Dad had a much beloved dog I cared for for years after we lost dad, and Snowball had passed just a few months prior. It was like they both were together again. Sure, it could be coincidence, but I like to think it’s him looking down on me. To this day, I always stop and say hello to Dad when I spot one. For me, it’s a visual reminder that he’ll always be watching over me.
Less sharp… That makes complete sense to me. I love the idea that you see rainbows. I have never written about this before but the day of Dad’s funeral, I was getting ready in the bathroom of his childhood home and there was a big spider on my shirt. I was startled, yes, bit also stunned. Dad read me Charlotte’s Web when I was a tiny girl and the words I were to speak that very day at his funeral had a Charlotte’s Web theme. It was uncanny.
Thank you for sharing bits and pieces of yourself here. I realize that I am far from alone in my longing.
The longing gets less intense, you do move on, but it never goes away completely. My dad has been gone for nearly 15 years, and the loss is still there though it isn’t as sharp. The anniversaries sting less, as do the milestones — like getting married without him there — but thinking of him can still bring tears to my eyes.
We all do what we need to do to live with profound loss. Be kind to yourself about it. xx
Thank you, Melissa, for leaving these words. It makes sense to me that I will never truly move on, but that the grief will become less prominent. In a bizarre and beautiful way, I hope that the tears will always come, that I will always be waiting in some sense for his presence. And I agree. We all cope with loss in different ways. I’ve said it time and time again but starting this blog – and maintaining it – has been one of the most important ways I have dealt with my own loss. Here I am able to excavate my memories and my feelings and write through it all. It has been a tremendous help to me – and having the words of so many others like you has really propped me up… So thank you.
I don’t really have words today, just sending virtual hugs your way.
You say you don’t have words, but these words mean more than you know. Thank you.
I haven’t experienced loss yet – at least not like this. So I can’t offer perspective that is anything but theoretical. I suspect, though, that the reason you wouldn’t want the wound to heal is because the only thing that can truly heal it is the one thing you can never have. By having that wound, and feeling it with varying levels of pain and urgency, you still have something of your dad, and can feel him in your life, even if abstractly.
The images of your girls in the window are lovely. And I’m glad they got their reunion, even though you’re still waiting for yours. Love and hugs to you today and every day.
Gale – I think you are right. There is something important about the wound. It’s weird to think that hurt can be good and instructive, but it really can. Thank you for your support today and always
Hi Aidan,
First time commenting…
These words speak to me as well. Twenty-five years after losing my father, I still have moments of immense sadness. I don’t think we ever get over the loss of loved ones, but we learn to “manage” our grief. It makes absolute sense to me that you sometimes want your wounds to remain open. I’ve been thinking about this a lot lately. Some days I just think it’s easier to remain sad and wounded, as a defense mechanism. If we continue to feel the loss, we don’t risk losing anything else, as though we have nothing left to lose. On the other hand, continuing to wait for their return can provide a hopeful, albeit somewhat disillusioned, feeling, which is just what we need sometimes.
Anyhow, thank you for posting this. Your description of your dad made me smile.
Laura – It means a great deal to me that you left a comment here today, so thank you. I think you are right that we learn, and must learn, to manage our grief. Ultimately, I don’t think the grief disappears, but just evolves. And perhaps this is optimistic of me, but I think it can evolve into something quite compelling and rich. I also agree that there is sometimes we need to, and even choose to, feel wounded as a way to remember, and to protect ourselves in the present day.
It makes perfect sense to me that 25 years later you are still missing your own father. I know that I will feel the same in some 22 years.
Today is my dad’s birthday and if I am really honest, it hurts like hell! It’s been a difficult week leading up to today, and I recognize the feeling as it creeps up and engulfs me.
I wholly relate to your post. I do however know that tomorrow I will not feel so bad, time has helped me deal with my dad not being here alot better (exept on days like these). I have come to understand, as everyone who loses a loved one, that they way I feel today is just the way I am going to feel and I just accept it for what it is.
Again time is a great healer, but there will be bad days.
Great post!
How bizarre (and fitting) that I posted this on your own father’s birthday. I hope you are holding up okay and filled with warm memories of him. I am with you that there are many days that are good and that they are peppered with days that are downright terrible. And, yes, time is perhaps the best healer of all.
Thank you Aidan, yes I held up as we all do. Today is a new day and I smile
It’s been three years and I will always wait.
I know how you feel.
xoxo
It’s good to know I am not alone in my waiting, Ayala. I don’t think I knew that we experienced our losses so close together in time. Isn’t it amazing how quickly time flies?
xo
I have experience with this – in January it will be 10 years since I lost my mother and more recently I lost my dear Uncle in November. I remember as time ticked by after losing my mom that the hole in my heart was there and it would never be refilled. I believe it will be there forever. It still hurts. I have had nights were I wake literally crying in my sleep – I think it’s the grief I’ve learned to push deep down resurfacing when I am not consciously able to fight it off and deny it.
I do think that people tend to shy away from posts about this. I don’t know if it makes them uncomfortable or is just too depressing. With my Uncle’s death so recent, I could’ve written day after day, but I didn’t because some part of me feels that no one wants to hear it. And so it becomes my personal burden that I suffer with in silence. And those who have not gone through something like this simply cannot understand the magnitude of it all.
Cathy – I think that grief is something we must acknowledge and respect without letting it consume us. Does that make sense? As for writing about it, I am a bit torn. On the one hand, part of me wants to keep this an “interesting and happy” blog and keep away from the melancholy stuff. On the other hand, I think life is about contrast and insofar as this blog is about me and who I am it would be disingenuous and false if I did not excavate my sadness from time to time. Dad’s death was the biggest loss I’ve experienced and in some important sense it has infused and affected everything since… so I must write about it here and there. It is freeing to do so and I hope (and trust) it doesn’t alienate too many of you guys…
I think the loss of a loved one is always with us.
You are so brave to expose your raw emotions. Thank you for sharing the pain of your loss with us.
I’m not sure how brave I am, but thank you. There is something majestic and liberating about sharing this stuff here. I’m not sure why, but it’s true.
Yes it does get easier but you never get over it. Just today I was telling my best friend about a card that we found while packing up my mother’s house for her move. It was a note written to my mom right after my dad’s death ten years ago. It brought tears to our eyes and made me realize how much a personal note with a memory can mean even years later. You never totally get over the loss and you will always be daddy’s girl. Your dad was a wonderful and sweet man and we all miss him.
In 1998 I lost a friend who was more like a brother than a friend to me. We were 29 and for a very long time it just ached, obviously the relationship isn’t the same as a parent but there is something that I noticed that might help.
There came a time when I realized that it didn’t hurt like it had before. There was loss, but it had softened. It freaked me out a little bit but I realized that it was ok not to have that hard edge there all of the time.
It didn’t change my feelings or mean that I cared less just that I had adapted and I think that it is ok.
As it turns out my children and I have talked about death, mine specifically a few times. I am not ill so I have no reason to think that I am going to die young, but I did give them my two cents.
I think it is ok to miss someone, but I don’t want them to carry sadness around. Sometimes when you look inside you find that person you miss looking back at you or so I believe.