Father's Day 2020: A Difficult Year

The bouquet of wildflowers gathered from my
property in memory of my dad. 

Many years the day comes and goes without any noticeable change in my energy level or emotion. This is not one of those years. Perhaps it is the added emotion of world events. Perhaps it is the sense of upheaval and heaviness that has been weighing on me for the past several weeks…..a sense of massive misunderstanding, disrespectful behavior, and a lack of compassion in the world. I truly don’t know why this year is different, but the arrival of Father’s Day has pulled the energy right out of me. I miss him. Every damn day, I miss him. My mother says I am a lot like him…..that I remind her of him. I will take that as a compliment.

It is so hard this year to not focus on everything we were denied. The weddings, holidays, special occasions that have come and gone since his passing. I feel a bit of anger and a whole lot of sadness. I think of him daily. This summer has been a “catch up” year on my property. I have been digging thistles and cutting dock with a vengeance. He is with me every time. When we were young, he would offer my younger sister and I a small amount of money for each thistle we cut or dug up. I sure wish he was here to pay me now! Actually, I would love to have him next to me with each step on the shovel or cut of the loppers. I would love to tell him about the huge buck that is grazing my property or about the wild blackberries growing in the fence line. He would have loved my place. I can see him fishing at the pond and walking the paths with me. He would have given me wonderful advice on how to be a good steward of this 21 acres.

My Dad sighting in his deer rifle. It had more
kick than he thought and he cut the bridge
of his nose. He didn't seem to mind!

There was a brief time after he was diagnosed with cancer that we thought he was going to recover. He received a great report with one of his scans….the original spot of cancer was gone. I stopped by their house the day he received that news. When he gave me the update, I ran to him as he sat in his recliner. I sat on his lap with my arms around his neck and my head buried against his chest. I was a child again. I wept. He pulled me close and we sat there for several minutes….relieved….grateful….feeling blessed. It was only a matter of weeks before the cancer returned.

I had stopped by to see how my parents were doing. My mother was not at home. I don’t remember where she was, but my dad and I sat in the family room and talked. He was telling me that he was getting rid of some coins he had collected. That was quite surprising, because the jar of coins was something we would take to the cellar with us if a tornado was coming. They were a valued possession. I was startled that he would be giving them away. I asked him, “What is going on, Daddy?” He said there wasn’t anything going on. I insisted that there was and that he tell me. After several exchanges, he told me that the cancer was back. It was located in several spots in his body and because it had spread while he was taking chemotherapy and radiation treatments, the doctors said there was nothing they could do. This was it. It was the final diagnosis. Terminal.

Then my dad said something to me that has haunted me to varying degrees ever since. He said, “Don’t tell your sisters.” I should have argued with him over that. I should have tried to convince him that it wasn’t fair to them to keep that secret. But I didn’t. I went along with his plan of secrecy and I have always regretted it. It is one of the reasons I am as direct with my words today. Lack of directness and honesty seldom plays out well in the end.

A few weeks later I delivered some items to my parents’ house on a Monday afternoon in mid-August. My mom was home and my dad was in town drinking coffee at the local convenience store with his group of friends. My mom and I were visiting when the back door opened. Through the door to the family room came two men assisting my dad. He could barely walk. He was nauseated. He was complaining of a severe headache. He looked awful. We asked them to help him to my car while my mom and I gathered up her purse and other things she thought she might need. Then we drove him to the local hospital.

My Dad and me at a school function for my daughter. 

The next hours are ingrained in my memory with great detail and yet the evening is also a massive blur. Nurses who didn’t pay attention….last conversations that I didn’t realize were the last….a doctor who couldn’t believe he hadn’t been notified of my dad’s condition….helicopter flights to a bigger hospital….the waiting room….attempts to notify everyone….a sister bringing a gift for her father only to collapse on the floor when she is told he is comatose and won’t be waking up…..family and friends supporting each other….change for the vending machine….denial….reality….saying goodbye…..holding his large, calloused hand in my own…..crying….regretting…..accepting…..knowing things would never be the same.

My sisters never got to tell him the things they would have said if they had known his terminal diagnosis. I cried many tears over that fact. They never saw anything to forgive, but it has taken me a long time to forgive myself. Truthfully, I am not sure that I have really done it. I simply sit in varying degrees of forgiveness with myself.

I loved his hugs. We are at my nephew's birthday party....
many years ago. 

Today is a rough one….this Father’s Day. I didn’t scan the cards at the store this year. I didn’t stand there imagining what one I would have bought for him. There is no family gathering, just a quiet drive to his grave with my dog, Pepper. He would have loved her as much as I do. There is the snack of a pack of cookies and a bottle of milk. That used to be the menu for lunch when we were on road trips with my dad……a big package of cookies and a quart of milk to share. He usually bought chocolate sandwich cookies. No cups….no napkins….no worries.

Yes, I am a lot like him. He called me his baby bull. I will own that. He used to tease me because I picked bouquets of wild flowers for my bedroom when I was in junior high and high school. He thought it was great that I found such beauty in the blooms of the thistle and other “weeds”. Today I remember him on paper with this post and by creating a beautiful bouquet of wildflowers for my living room. Each black-eyed susan, stalk of dock, yarrow blossom, and wispy bloom is a remembrance of my love for him and his love for me.

I miss you, Daddy. I always will.