Eight Year Anniversary of My Dad's Death

Today we celebrate eight years since my dad passed away. Celebrate? I don't know. That sounds uncomfortable to say. Still, my mom did text this morning: "[W]e celebrate birthdays. And I think there is just as much reason to celebrate the day we moved back to Heaven." I think she's probably right. He wanted to live to 100. Always he talked about living to 100. But if he finished his work and passed his tests ahead of schedule? If, sooner than he'd imagined, he got to climb over that big wall he'd dreamt about as a boy--the one that blocked his path and proclaimed "THE END" on its face (maddening his little boy self--who knew, as sure as he could know anything, that something had to be beyond that wall)? Well. That day deserves acknowledged anyway.

The time of losing him was unlike any other in my experience. I should like to say it was all sacredness and beauty, but there were indignities in his death. Do you know that the memory that pains me the most in all of it was being at a physical therapy session when a doctor spoke about him, not to him in a callous and demeaning manner. It wasn't a lengthy interaction. I doubt the doctor even realized. But it still gives me a knot in my stomach. Why is that moment so strongly in my memory? My dad would hug me if he were here--assure me it's forgotten and was nothing at all to bear. He'd only be sorry it caused me any hurt. But I did want to stand and box that doctor's ears (though I'm not rightly sure how one boxes ears to be honest). "Do you know who this is?" I wanted to demand. "Don't you know this is Gordon Allred?"

But, some parts were sacred. Because, while we were all grappling at what looked to be occurring--the death of our father, my dad was undergoing his own ... I don't know what ... was it a battle of sorts for him? This relinquishing mortal life? I don't know. But one time, as I sat next to his bed, I listened to him offering a long prayer. It wasn't all coherent. And I don't think he even knew I was there. But his mind was reaching to God. "Please help me overcome," he said. "I didn't anticipate this overwhelming challenge. ... I don't say that to excuse myself. ..." And then he spoke to God of "going forth" in "hope, light, and kindness". He repeated hope and kindness so many times.

It was sacred being a witness to that, I knew. And I often wish I could write about losing him in a way worthy of that moment in his and our existence. Or even that l could proclaim things like "I miss him every day" or "I have never gotten over his loss". Only ... I rarely feel those things strongly front and center. Instead, I feel this vague sort of dissatisfaction over the fact that I actually can't fully imagine what it was like having him here. It feels so distant and out of reach. Once, in a rare while, I'll dream of Polk's End and my dad there. And it's odd that it takes dreaming to make it feel a reality again.

But! I have felt him close on occasion. I've had insights about what he is doing and how he is helping. We are practicing this rather hard to hone through-the-veil relationship. And perhaps, what I need to do, is quit worrying about how deeply I should or shouldn't feel his loss, or fretting about all that seems hard to recall or all that I can't properly express about his passing, and instead write up a post of the many things I do remember of the miraculous life he created for his children. Yes. I will do that soon! And, in the meantime, I can with full conviction proclaim one thing: there is nobody in all of existence I would have rather had for a father. Nobody. I love him so much.

Also, after clicking "publish" on this post, I discovered that I'd made a similar attempt to write about this seven years ago. That post is here: https://nancyaah.blogspot.com/2017/07/a-year-ago.html