Friday is the two year anniversary of my dad’s death. I'm stuck in the in-between of "It's only been two years" and "It's already been two years." I can still remember the day he died like it was yesterday. Hearing that your father has cancer is difficult in and of itself. Add in the words, "Stage Four" and "Mets to the liver and spine" and all of a sudden you feel like you're in an episode of Grey's Anatomy. His doctors had called me a few days prior to set up an appointment with me so that I could sign and go over power of attorney paperwork and get all the legal things squared away. He died before I even got the chance to see any of it.
It was a normal Wednesday, like any other day. Depression claimed my days. I was stuck in a fog since my dad had told me about his cancer. All I could think about was when we found out my grandma had cancer, and six weeks later she was gone. We only got eight weeks with my dad. Sleeping the day away before going to work and then coming home and sleeping more was how I was dealing with it. I woke up at 1 pm to 5 missed calls and 2 voicemails from my dad's doctors.
The first voicemail was time-stamped 11:36 AM.
"Good morning Anna, your dad isn't doing so well. You should really think about getting down here."
The second voicemail was time-stamped 12:11 PM.
"I'm so sorry to inform you that your dad passed away at 12:05 PM this afternoon."
All I could do was cry. I could barely choke out the words, "Dad's gone" when I called my mom sobbing hysterically. "He's gone, he's dead, and I can't stop crying."
The sadness still is enough to stop me in my tracks sometimes. The gaping dad-sized hole in my heart will never quite be filled. I have achieved varying levels of acceptance in my grieving, but there are still moments in my life when I wish more than anything I could just pick up the phone, dial the same phone number he had for fifteen years, and hear his voice one more time. I wish we had more time. More laughter, more road trips, more driving around "just because." More. Always more.
At the same time, I can't believe two years have already passed since he died. It feels like I have done so much with my life in the last two years. I started taking pictures again. I reopened my business last year. I quit my crappy fast food job. I am no longer the same person I was when my father was alive. His death taught me to look fear in the eyes and tell it, "No." Losing him was my wake up call. My dad ran his own business from his late-twenties until I was in pre-school. If he could get his shit together enough to do that, what the hell was stopping me?
My dad lived his life on his own terms. He didn't really care what anyone else thought. I'm still inspired and awe-struck by him every single day. I am my father's daughter, through and through. I look just like him. I am the quiet, introverted, very private and sensitive person in my family. I am the creative one. I am the memory-keeper. I believe I inherited all of this from him, and now part of me is keeping his legacy alive within me by following my passion just like he did.
All I ever wanted was for him to be proud of me, and I think he really would be.
It was a normal Wednesday, like any other day. Depression claimed my days. I was stuck in a fog since my dad had told me about his cancer. All I could think about was when we found out my grandma had cancer, and six weeks later she was gone. We only got eight weeks with my dad. Sleeping the day away before going to work and then coming home and sleeping more was how I was dealing with it. I woke up at 1 pm to 5 missed calls and 2 voicemails from my dad's doctors.
The first voicemail was time-stamped 11:36 AM.
"Good morning Anna, your dad isn't doing so well. You should really think about getting down here."
The second voicemail was time-stamped 12:11 PM.
"I'm so sorry to inform you that your dad passed away at 12:05 PM this afternoon."
All I could do was cry. I could barely choke out the words, "Dad's gone" when I called my mom sobbing hysterically. "He's gone, he's dead, and I can't stop crying."
The sadness still is enough to stop me in my tracks sometimes. The gaping dad-sized hole in my heart will never quite be filled. I have achieved varying levels of acceptance in my grieving, but there are still moments in my life when I wish more than anything I could just pick up the phone, dial the same phone number he had for fifteen years, and hear his voice one more time. I wish we had more time. More laughter, more road trips, more driving around "just because." More. Always more.
At the same time, I can't believe two years have already passed since he died. It feels like I have done so much with my life in the last two years. I started taking pictures again. I reopened my business last year. I quit my crappy fast food job. I am no longer the same person I was when my father was alive. His death taught me to look fear in the eyes and tell it, "No." Losing him was my wake up call. My dad ran his own business from his late-twenties until I was in pre-school. If he could get his shit together enough to do that, what the hell was stopping me?
My dad lived his life on his own terms. He didn't really care what anyone else thought. I'm still inspired and awe-struck by him every single day. I am my father's daughter, through and through. I look just like him. I am the quiet, introverted, very private and sensitive person in my family. I am the creative one. I am the memory-keeper. I believe I inherited all of this from him, and now part of me is keeping his legacy alive within me by following my passion just like he did.
All I ever wanted was for him to be proud of me, and I think he really would be.
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