Not Exactly
I had something else planned for today. A different post entirely. But I have to write what I feel. It's just who I am.
I want to talk about the zoo. I want to show you the pictures, relive the laughs, tell you more about my dear friend Amy. I want to be positive. I want to be happy. But I can't.
I can't act like my heart isn't breaking. Like I'm not drowning.
Last week I went to a wake for a friend. My family became friends with Ron (and his family) through Bonnie. If you've been reading this blog for a while you know Bonnie. Bonnie was the first friend my parents made when we moved to the Chicago area from Iowa.
Ron and his wife Germaine were a constant at Bonnie's legendary parties. I grew up thinking of Ron as a sweet, funny, genuine, caring man. One of the good guys.
It wasn't until I got older and really until Scott met him for the first time that I really connected with Ron. One of the first times Scott met Bonnie (and her "clan") was at a surprise birthday party for Bonnie's mom (Grandma Alice). Ron was there, as usual, with his gorgeous camera. Ron teased me about being photogenic saying that he could tell exactly what I was thinking because of my facial expressions. Scott stopped dead in his tracks and said "That's it. That's why I love you. I know everything just looking at you."
For our entire relationship Scott remembered that moment. He loved it and his favorite photo of us was a photo taken on that day.
Losing Ron, and going to his service, brought an abundance of my feeling back to the surface.
I stood there holding his wife's hand (or maybe she was holding mine. I'm not sure) feeling more connected to this 60+ woman than I do to almost anyone else. This invisible thread wrapping around us, tying us in a not so neat package and linking us for life. My heart broke for her. Knowing what she was going to be facing in the weeks and months ahead. Wanting to tell her it would get better but not really knowing if it would. Resisting the urge to wipe off her beautifully placed make up, pulling her to the floor and wrapping her in my arms and crying with her.
Instead, I followed my own advice and I shared a story with her and encouraged her to find the blue skies.
Since that moment last week, I haven't been the same. This dull, persistent ache in my chest has grown loud and unruly. I "see" Scott everywhere. Kate has been talking about him (and to him) incessantly. Every wish in every fountain, on every wayward eyelash and on the moon every night is the same from Kate "I wish my daddy could be here for all of the days and never, never leave me."
There we are standing at the beautiful fountain just off the shore of "daddy lake", the other 4 year old with us, wishes she could "talk and talk all day and never have to stop." and then there is my 4 year old. Wishing with all her pennies for something that can never happen.
We talk so much about not being able to come back from heaven. I try so hard to explain it in ways that she can understand but considering I don't understand it, it's difficult.
The idea of moving from summer into fall makes me want to literally vomit. It reduces me to tears and makes breathing difficult. Fall was our time of year. Scott loved it. We got married in the fall. We ventured out into nature, taking pictures and enjoying the cooler weather. Fall was always a treasured time in our house.
Not only is fall going to be hard to enjoy without him, it will also mark an entire season of his being gone. I'm a midwest girl at heart. I'm programmed to measure everything by season. I can't tell you exact dates but I can give you seasons for everything that's ever happened in my life.
The rust colored flowers, hay bails, pumpkins, apple pies, and cider are glorious, wonderful parts of fall. The crispness in the air. The vibrancy in the sky. All beautiful, wonderful, magical parts of the season.
But I don't want any of it. I want to keep my summer. Keep my beach and pool distractions. The ability to find something to do at any given moment.
Quite simply, I don't want to be that much father away from Scott.
I wish I could explain it. I wish I could put into words what it feels like to be driving along and have a song come on that transports you to a different time. That suddenly places you in your husbands arms again but you can't quite feel it anymore.
I can't find the right words to express the feelings I get to simply look at my daughters eyes and stare at the beautiful eyelashes that are her most prominent physical feature of her fathers.
Kate told me tonight as we looked at her "daddy book" for the 1,000th time that she remembers the day Kara came and took our pictures. The day before Scott died. "I 'member that Daddy not get the stickers off right and you helped us Mommy. But Daddy was hugging me because I not feel good."
She remembers what it feels like to be wrapped in his arms and I don't. Is it wrong to be jealous of my own daughter?
As my Grandma says "Grief will have it's way with you." This is just part of the process.
