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.

Grief...missing my Dad.

NOTE:  I wrote this post last night when I did not have access to the internet.  

  It is 11:30 p.m. on August 16^th and I am having my annual visit with my grief.  My visit started late this afternoon as I took my mother to Stillwater.  We spent the evening wandering around Lowe’s looking for the perfect paint color and carpet for her family room addition.  This was a coping trip.  We were supporting each other…holding each other up…just as we did seven years ago…the night my dad died. 

Some years the anniversary of his death comes around and I realize after the fact that the day has come and gone.  Then I have a year like this one.  The grief does not roll me into a ball on the bathroom floor like the first year….but it is ever present.  I am aware of his legacy in my life.  My “Daddy” memories flow swiftly and with great abundance.  I am caught off guard by the quantity that surface. 

Why this year?  I don’t really ask the question.  I have given up questioning how grief works….when it will appear…..how long it will stay..…how I will react. 

It seems to be softer now…...my grief.  Still deep.  Still honest.  Still authentic.  But much softer..…at least around the edges.  I recognize it now and it does not surprise me when I feel it approaching.  Tonight I greet my grief and welcome it to come inside and sit with me…..and it does.  I think back to the night my dad died.  I process my regrets and forgive myself again for not being more assertive in the ER…for not asking more questions…for being nice.  My grief did not bring tears tonight.  Maybe that is what feels softer.  Instead my grief brought memories of my fathers love.  Memories of that ornery twinkle in his eye…..of the way his shoulders moved up and down when he laughed….of how he shifted his weight from side to side when he walked. 

My family has experienced many things since my dad died.  High school and college graduations.....marriages.....births.....life has continued.  It is as he would want it.  He would want us to continue on…..to live.  And so we shall.

It is almost midnight.  My mind correlates the clock to the events of that night….”and then this happened…and then they arrived….and then we were told there was no hope….and then I held his hand as he drifted from us.”

I am content in my grief.

Memories of Dad

This time of year is difficult.  Memories of my dad seem to be everywhere partly due to the events occuring around me.  Of course Father's Day was last weekend, which has a different significance for me since my dad died almost seven years ago.  Last weekend was also our local Relay for Life fundraiser for cancer research.  My dad participated in the Relay for Life event each year by releasing homing pigeons as part of the opening ceremonies.  Several times my two daughters helped him with the release.

Two years ago I was asked to give a speech at the Relay for Life opening ceremonies in memory of my dad.  That speech is presented below.  I feel so blessed by the lessons he taught me and the love that he shared.

"I have been asked to share memories of my dad, Bob Farabough, who died from cancer of the esophagus on August 17, 2004.  Tonight I will touch on some personal memories of my dad and share what I learned from his battle with cancer and from his death.

My dad was outnumbered in his own house.  He was the only man in a house with 6 women…five daughters and my mom, Judy.  That fact in itself is a testament to his necessary sense of humor and ever-tested patience.   Although I didn’t truly recognize his sense of humor or his patience until I become an adult.

My dad was our resident expert on many topics….trapping, poultry, horticulture, hunting, and playing practical jokes.  If you needed information on these or many other topics, you could call my dad for the answer.  And I still find myself thinking, “Dad will have the answer to that….I’ll call him.”  And I will forever mourn the loss of his knowledge.

He loved to hunt and in his later years he developed arthritis in his hands and shoulders which made those “easy” shots much more difficult, but he still enjoyed the time spent in the outdoors.  He enjoyed listening to a covey of quail….watching a flock of wild turkeys scurry through the grass, or sitting in a deer stand as the frosty air warmed with the sunrise. 

My dad was openly patriotic and I saw him cry many times when the American flag was displayed or presented.

My dad was a collector and grew up in an era where the philosophy was that everything was valuable and therefore worth saving.  He definitely lived by that philosophy.  He saved every tiny piece if wire and every nail….he saved buckets and boards…cages and crates….twine and tools.  And five years after his death….we are still dealing with his collections!

My dad was kind and caring and befriended people based on “who” they were….not their profession or status in the community or the value of their possessions.  He influenced the lives of thousands of people throughout his lifetime during his Cooperative Extension and 4-H work and I have been blessed to hear from dozens of former 4-H members since my Dad died.  Their stories allowed me to see my dad in a different light….for I knew him as my dad and I could then see him through their eyes.   

My dad loved his family….especially his grandchildren and great-grandchildren….and they changed him over the years.  One of my favorite examples of this involved my two daughters….his only two granddaughters.  My dad was very strict when we were young and I remember him getting upset when my older sister came home from college with her toenails painted pink.  Not bright pink...but a soft light shade of pink.  He said that only "hussies" painted their toenails.  Now fast forward about 25 years and my dad is babysitting my two daughters.  When I arrived to pick them up I was quite surprised to find my daughters sitting on their Pepa's lap...their little fingers spread wide while he painted their fingernails pink.  Not a soft, light shade of pink....but a bright fuschia pink!  Yes....the years definitely changed and softened my dad.

My dad was a storyteller and always had a new story to tell….usually very animated and descriptive.  And he used some of the strangest sayings when he spoke.  Our family always told him he should write a book about his sayings.  Some of his common sayings were:  “Half a bubble off plumb.”  … “One brick short of a load.” … “He was so broke he couldn’t even pay attention.”  But the family favorite was, “What in the cat hair?” which could be used in the same context as “What in the world?”

My dad traditionally prayed at our family gatherings and he always ended the prayer with these words.  “Lord we ask that you be with the less-fortunate, the hungry and the homeless.  And we pray that you see fit to bring peace to the world.”

My dad was like every other person here tonight…he had his shining moments and his failures….he was strong yet weak…..he was courageous yet afraid….he was confident yet insecure….he showed tremendous care for others yet was sometimes self-centered….he was human.

When I started working on this speech, my mom said she wanted me to mention that she missed his feet.  That statement puzzled me at first but she continued on to explain its meaning.  Their bed didn’t have a footboard.  It was just open at the end of the bed.  When my mom came into the bedroom during the night, she would hold her hand out as she walked along the end of the bed.  When she felt his feet, she knew where she was in the room and could make her way safely into bed.  He was her point of reference.  Without him, she must find her way alone in the dark.  I think this story serves as a metaphor with great significance….because my dad was the point of reference for my mom and our family unit.  He was our compass…our grounding point.  When he was here, we knew where we stood in relation to each other….where we fit in the family.  He was the thread that wove through our lives….binding us together.  In his absence, we have each had to look individually for a new point of reference…a new grounding point….a new compass within the family.  My mom has become just that.  She has become that binding thread that weaves delicately, yet resolutely through all our lives holding us up as a family. 

After my dad was diagnosed with cancer, he began the fight that so many of you are familiar with.  He began the typical radiation and chemotherapy treatments and did so with a positive attitude and a brave face for his family and friends.  But I occasionally wonder how and what he was truly feeling.   For my dad refused to discuss his fears and anxieties with his family.  We all just thought that positive thinking, good medical care, and diligent prayer would win out…. We just thought he was ornery and tough enough to beat it.   So we received a huge reality check when he died.  How I wish now I had insisted on those discussions!

 For I was not prepared for his death….and I will never know if he was either….I will never know if he had come to terms with dying.  Our family was thrown, like many families, into that vast spiral of mourning and grief with regrets of things left unsaid, emotions not expressed, and assurances not given.   And I have learned the hard way that grieving is one of the most individual and intimate processes we will ever experience as human beings.  What is healing for one person doesn’t work at all for another….and as a society we are incredibly uncomfortable with grief.  A friend shared her own experience after my dad died….she told me that when her husband died, a friend told her that after a month, nobody  wanted to hear about her grief….she should just keep it to herself and get over it.  When I shared that story at work, my boss looked at me and said, “Beth, I don’t believe that!” and she gave me permission to grieve.  She told me I could grieve, cry, talk, get angry, and reminisce as often and for as long as I needed.  I am very thankful for that haven…a place to mourn when I thought I had to be strong everywhere else.

So this is the part of the message I hope stays with you tonight.  The diagnosis of cancer is an opportunity.  Let me repeat that….The diagnosis of cancer is an opportunity.  It is an opportunity to talk about the tough stuff….the taboo stuff.  It is the time to lay everything on the table….to have the argument….to make amends…..to have the reconciliation.  It is an opportunity to laugh, to cry, to hug each other, to love, to live…….to say yes….or to say no.  But ideally we won’t wait for a diagnosis….we will do all those things now….simply because we can.

We never know what our lives hold for us.  My dad had only six month from diagnosis to death….we may have more time…..or we may have less.  But I have come to realize through grieving my dad, that the best way for us to honor our loved ones is to truly live this life…..with authenticity and with our own unique passion and God-given purpose.  To shape each day with attention, intent, and mindfulness so as those days accumulate into weeks, months, and years they ultimately form the context of the life we want to live….a life that is a truthful representation of who we are …..a life that exemplifies our values and beliefs.    

And right about now….I can hear my Dad saying, “Kid, what in the cat hair are you doing?  I think you have talked long enough!”  Thank you.