I earned a speeding ticket, went home, and wept.
The ticket and tears were unrelated. It was heartbreak that spawned my waterworks. The day was February 19, 2014, and it went down like this…
I dropped off my kids at school and started the drive home. Within three blocks, a cop stared me down as he passed the opposite direction. He immediately u-turned, flipped on his sirens, and pulled me over.
“You were speeding,” he said.
His news surprised me but ignorance was no excuse. So I apologized and thanked the cop as he handed me the ticket.
Thirty minutes later, I sat in my home office trying to work on my novel. Except I couldn’t type any words onto the page. I quickly realized this wasn’t writer’s block, and my body was beginning to process what happened three days prior on February 16, 2014.
That’s the day my dad died.
I sat there paralyzed as an unfamiliar salty substance began to discharge from my eyes. It released at an alarming rate.
Then the anger surfaced. I wiped the tears and sat there yelling at myself for blubbering. “This is why I don’t cry. It’s stupid!”
I take pride in being a robot most of the time. Machines are too efficient to shed tears. I seek their same performance levels.
But on that day in February, my brain misfired in wicked ways. I hated the fact I’d lost control. Most of all, I despised having to process the man who raised me was gone.
That right-wing nut would never again bark at me for creating unrest in his OCD world. He’d never again challenge me to use my gifts to start something of my own. He’d never visit this blog I launched a year later or read my debut novel.
His sudden illness and death shocked everyone including the doctors. But he finally made good on what he’d been promising for ages by turning in his key.
And my mother lost her best friend of more than four decades. My siblings and I lost the man we called Pop. Our kids lost their Pop Pop. We all lost the photographer of just “one more.”
Waiters and waitresses lost a loyal patron who rooted for them to “get a raise.” Drive-thru attendees lost the guy who once proclaimed his order was “to go.”
Pop was a crazy old man.
Damn, I loved that guy.
Maybe it’s the full moon or the holidays but I’ve been mourning him more lately. My eyes got misty yesterday. That moment prompted me to start writing this therapeutic post.
Yet my own sadness reminds me of the insane pain my mother’s had to endure. That doesn’t mean I can’t grieve, too. I just feel selfish for writing these words. Right or wrong, these thoughts of selfishness have infected me.
I’ve never visited his grave. Of course, I know Pop’s not there in that cemetery, and he’s not missing my attendance.
I just worry I’ve never gone there for a reason. Maybe I fear that I’ll bring memories of him to that grave site. Memories I’m not ready to face. I pray that’s not the case.
I used to think I handled his death really well. Maybe I just postponed the pain. Maybe it’ll keep trickling out over the years. Or maybe I just need to release another big ugly cry someday.
Either way, it turns out I’m not the automated Dave I’ve always strived to be. I’m no robot. I don’t always function within normal parameters.
Oh yeah, Pop would have celebrated another birthday this month. It’s weird because whenever someone learns of his death, the first question they typically ask is “How old was he?”
Everyone wants the answer to be an older age. Why? Do we believe that a longer life of the deceased will help ease the mourning of the living?
Death is only hard for those of us still here. Come on, I’m not worried about Pop. In fact, I picture him smiling down on us right now. He’s drinking a thimble size glass of vino as he navigates technology without effort. He’s in good shape.
I gotta run now. Literally.
My wife signed up our family to run a 5K Turkey Trot thing I don’t want to do. You see, my CPU’s concerned that the boy will need to be encouraged to keep moving every two blocks and my daughter will ask me to carry her twenty yards after we begin.
But I’m thankful. Because I’m still here, and I get to be a father and husband today.
A heartwarming post to a Pop that sounds wonderful. I’m sorry you’re hurting, David. I know the pain; I lost both parents by the time I was nineteen. I’d love to tell you it gets easier, but that simply isn’t true. But I do believe your father has seen and rejoiced at everything you’ve accomplished. Hope you and your family have a wonderful Thanksgiving. Good luck at the race!
Hey Sue. I survived the race and ended up having a lot of fun with the fam. (Shhh. Don’t tell anyone.)
Also, wow, I was worried about losing my hair at nineteen years old. Can’t imagine losing my parents at that age. Thanks for being a strong woman.
And Happy Thanksgiving!
Beautiful. Happy Thanks to you and yours!
Hey Destiny. I appreciate you taking the time to relay your thankfulness. You rock. Happy everything right back at ya!
A really powerful piece. Being Thankful for my parents today, and thinking of you in your loss.
Hey Kimberly. I really appreciate you taking the time to share your take here. Thanks for being thankful for the people around you.
And no worries about me, I’ve rebooted my brain.
David,
It is truly amazing how the losses in our lives can bring out the very best stories that we hold deep within us.
This is my second Thanksgiving with out my Dad and even though he is not physically here I picture him in my minds eye.
He sits in his favorite chair with a cushion to protect his boney bottom. He crosses his legs even though he shouldn’t.
Dad sips on his third cup of coffee and argues with Mom about the money she spends on the cigarettes that cause her uncontrollable coughing.
The grandchildren go from the living room to to dining room like a hurd of elephants. As they pass through he talks to each of them to catch up on what is going on in their lives.
Dad goes to the sink where mom puts together the last touch on dinner-her yeast rolls. It won’t be the same on Thanksgiving with them. He pats her on the fanny and kisses her cheek. He calls her “lovey” in a gesture of peace. Mom shoes him away and he goes back to the table to wait for the copious amounts of food that have taken days to prepare.
WE all eat and talk and laugh until we can barely move. The table is cleared. Let the games begin. Whether we play scribbage, UNO, or boggle it doesn’t matter. It’s the memories of the day that will never be forgotten. Giving thanks for all you have those are just words. Be thankful for those you still have left and the ones God let grace our lives even though it was such a short time. Those are all I am thankful for this Thanksgiving.
I hope you and your family have a grateful Thanksgiving. God Bless and know your Dad IS with you today and everyday. Just ask for him and he will come. Talk to him if you have things that need healing it is never to late for healing.
Julie Young
Yo Julie. Wow, thanks so much for sharing your heart here in the comments. We’re on the same page.
And Happy Thanksgiving to you, too!
Thank you for this post. It was sad and heartwarming at the same time. I’m glad you are still able to see the good in life and are still grateful for what’s important in life. Hope you and your family have a wonderful Thanksgiving this year, giving thanks for what’s most important to you.
Yo Cori. Thanks so much for dropping by and sharing your feedback.
The fam and I already got that fun run in to start the day. My daughter was strong and required minimal carrying. The boy excelled. (Yep, I worry too much.)
It’s been a wonderful day so far.
Happy Thanksgiving!
Hey guy,
That was a great post. You’re not selfish at all for writing that post. Robots can’t write posts like this. As a matter of fact, it’s very therapeutic for you. Writing about our pain helps us heal. Sure, there will be times when the fondest memories of your father will bring tears to your eyes, or make you cry. And that’s okay. It’s like one of my heroes would say:”Damn it, Bones, you’re a doctor. You know that pain and guilt can’t be taken away with a wave of a magic wand. They’re the things we carry with us, the things that make us who we are. If we lose them, we lose ourselves. I don’t want my pain taken away! I need my pain!”-Captain Kirk. What’s more, your sharing this with us, shows that you’re truly a good man. Your father would be very proud of you. Thank you for sharing a reminder that everyone should always be grateful, especially on an important day like today. I wish you and your family a very Happy Thanksgiving! Take care, my friend.
Hey Anwar. I’m a Star Trek geek, too. However, I’ve never seen a Captain Kirk quote used in such a serious way… but I love it! Well done!
And thanks for solidifying my decision to share this post. It felt selfish as recently as this morning but your feedback (and others here) has helped ease my mind. Thank you.
Happy Thanksgiving!
So glad that you shared this. I think about my parents during the holidays too. I still grieve for what was and what will never be. Distance has given me a greater appreciation for their sacrifice, their quirkiness and above all their journey. Life goes by so much quicker than we think it will, and the absence of my parents reminds me of that each holiday season. Enjoy your time being a dad and a husband today. You’re a good man–hey not everyone can trot with the turkeys, dude!
Stephanie, thanks for bringing a solid take here. I agree with everything you wrote. (I’ll even accept the “good man” part.)
Straight up, thanks for being so supportive, and Happy Thanksgiving!
It funny how we don’t get to choose when the tears come. Or the memories. Sometimes they ambush us and other times they come like a soft rain. My mom died six weeks before your dad, and I still have days like the one you described.
Hello Patricia. Thanks so much for sharing. You get it. I’m just now recognizing how this grieving thing can go though. (I’ve always been a late bloomer.) Thanks again for dropping in!
Nice, David. Raw and real and true. Enjoyed it.
Hey Cody. Appreciate the quick take. It means a lot to me. Happy Thanksgiving brotha and keep writing.
Thank you for the heartfelt confession of love. Your Pop was proud of you while he was living, and is still proud of you…as am I. It is hard to be real, but it is better than being a robot.
I love you.
Mom
Mother, I love you. Thank you for building me.
David,
What a beautifully written and heart-warming post! It is evident that your are most definitely a writer; and a transparent one. Giving thanks in the midst of grief is a mark of true faith and hope, and God’s Word assures us that this hope will not disappoint for we know that to be absent from the body, is to be present with the LORD. You have not said goodbye to your father-just see you later. I love your dad’s “turned in his key,”. You’ll have to share with me what your father meant by this analogy, even though I think I know. In the meantime, cry your tears, feel your pain because though a machine may be too efficient to cry-it also cannot be a husband, a father, a turkey-trotter and more importantly, feel and remember your father. There is God’s sweet mixed in with the bitter; that death cannot take away the memory of your father and that your pain is proof that you have loved and been loved by a great gift from the Great Father who gives all good gifts. From my heart to yours, always!!
Yo Kileeo. Like you, I’m a man of faith so we know who’s pouring that vino for Pop. Thank you for the wonderful words you spun here. It means a lot and I look forward to catching up soon.
David, Thank you so much for writing this. Just left mom’s, dropped the family off at home, and am sitting in a Rite Aid parking lot w tears. I wish I had told him I loved him, while he was still conscious. I wish he could have seen me finally get into nursing school. My tumultuous grief and the space I hold for mom’s broken heart are both heavy and feral. The best way I’ve heard grief described is as horrific and holy.
I am thankful.
Hey big sis. I hope your tears didn’t bring about an ugly cry like mine. They’re not fun.
On a serious note, I pray that you process he still knew you loved him. I pray that helps.
I love ya.
I don’t remember discussing our fathers’ deaths when we had lunch. Maybe it doesn’t always come up in the first half-hour, eh?
I remember a few years ago preparing mentally to be older than my father. He was 52 when he was, literally, hit by a truck.
One thought I have: I’m barely hitting my stride, just now sorting out what on earth is going on. And yet, I’m angry and hurt sometimes that he didn’t do a better job because, y’know, he was older than me.
Perhaps I’ll remember to cut his memory some slack. Maybe write a happy song about him.
Hey Joel. We didn’t discuss our fathers. But thank you for sharing some about him (and you) here. Your limited words said a lot here. Thank you so much for sharing.
That article seems so small, yet is full of heavy thought-inspiring notes.
Functioning within normal parameters… who defined the ‘normal’ of the programming? Wouldn’t it mean following a programmer alike a dictator? 😉
Death & Mourning are difficult topics indeed. The last friend I lost was Silke, a woman age 37, mother of 3 kids, dying from organ failure while trying to end her alcohol addiction to be there for her family again. I know no words which help anyone on living-on, nor on mourning.
And while I DID watch ‘I-Robot’, the real spooky for me, the one clouding my perception of this article is: The Assassin Droid from KOTOR 2! It had disguised as a simple protocol droid, and reprogrammed the mining facilities other bots to mine for human inner organs instead! ;->
My best wishes, patches & family well-being included!
Hey Andre. Wow, thanks for sharing your unique take here. You’re a thoughtful guy my brotha.
And I never played KOTOR. I heard it was amazing though. It sounds a lot darker than I thought it was!
Thanks again for sharing your thoughts my new writing friend.