grief – one year

It’s been one year since my dad passed.

I don’t think I could miss him more if I tried.

I can count the days I’ve thought about calling, the days I’ve missed him, the days I was reminded of him.

365. Every day.

There’s so much I wish I could’ve talked to you about this year. Conference presentations, manuscripts published, my dissertation proposal, getting engaged, interviewing for post-docs, all my traveling. I wish we were planning our World Cup game, you coming to Columbia for my graduation, what songs I’d play at my wedding.

It felt too soon to me. That’s the truth. I still feel like there’s time stolen and things you’re missing that you shouldn’t be.

And… I also think about what you might be doing every day up in heaven. What adventures you’re going on with Uncle Jack, what you’re tasting in the kitchen with Aunt Margie, what birds you’re watching with your grandmother, what pastries your eating on the porch with Susan Vaughn, what meat you’re smoking for everyone, who’s listening to your stories and rants playing devil’s advocate, what soccer game you’re playing/watching, what music you’re playing/listening to. And I smile.

I am sad every day. For all the things that you’re missing and that I can’t call you about.

I am thankful every day. For you being my dad, all that you taught me and how you raised me.

I am relieved every day. For the fact that you are no longer in pain.

I am happy every day. For imagining all the things you’re doing in heaven.

I wasn’t exactly sure what to do today. I’m sad with all of the reminders of what today marks, and what the past week looked like last year. I’m also really happy and proud of the scholarship we’ve set up in my dad’s name. So maybe I’ll have dinner and a drink in your honor, because that’s what I think you would do and what you would want.

I love you Goat Dad, and I’ll keep making it day by day. Cheers to you and your life.

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grief pt. 10

Happy Birthday, Goat Dad.

You would’ve turned 69 today.

You would’ve ‘slept in’ and joked about how it’s still special on your birthday even though you can do it every day when you’re retired, relishing in the post-work life you were building. You would’ve played disc golf, listened to music, watched a movie and/or a soccer game, and you would’ve talked to Zac and I on the phone. You wouldn’t have enjoyed it because it’s your birthday, you would’ve just enjoyed hearing our voices. And you probably would’ve walked to Zaps down the road and celebrated with a couple of friends and a margarita.

We would’ve talked about my dissertation proposal. It’s in a week and a half, dad. You would love hearing about my studies, appreciating the social constructs I’m targeting, and we would’ve argued if I’m really getting at them with quantitative data because you would make a case it has to be qualitative. Dad, I’m proposing a multilevel mediation for one of my papers. You would’ve sat back with such pride. You would’ve argued with me, I would’ve gotten frustrated, and after we got off the phone, I would’ve known you argued because you cared and you were invested. You would’ve driven to watch my proposal in person if I had said yes, and at a minimum, you would’ve been watching over zoom. You would’ve been taking notes, writing your questions to ask me later. You would’ve been there, you would’ve been present.

God, I miss you. So much. Every day.

It still hurts so much, dad. I think it’s gotten harder being in the process of writing my proposal, submitting it, and working on the presentation. You should be here. I never thought you wouldn’t be here for this. When I chose to pursue a PhD, I made an effort to make sure you knew it wasn’t because of you. I was making the decision independently. And now I see your influence every day. You grew my curiosity, my compassion for people. My questions, in quantity and purpose, are rooted in the belief system you (& mom of course) raised me in. It feels so unfair that you can’t be here with me through this process and see it to the finish line.

I miss you, dad. So much more than I could put into words.

So instead, I wore your Italian 1994 World Cup jersey. I wore the ring and necklace I got made from Pa’s rings. I worked on my dissertation proposal with your PhD diploma right next to me. And I ordered a german chocolate cake of course. I did my best to honor you today, dad, and if there was a place as good as Zaps, I’d go get the fish and a margarita. I wish we could’ve just had a phone call. God, I wish I could call you and hear your voice.

My guess is you still got the fish and a margarita up in Heaven, probably with Steve Forrester. And I’m guessing you celebrated with Mrs. Susan in the morning, coffee and pastries on the porch. I’d guess you had your own german chocolate cake with Aunt Margie, Pa, Ma, and Uncle Jack. I hope you felt celebrated today, dad. I hope it was fun and full of joy, and I hope you looked down and saw us celebrating you too. I hope you know how much I love you, I miss you, and how much your still present with me every day.

Happy Birthday, Goat Dad, cheers to you.

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grief pt. 9

My dad and I never had a relationship that we talked every day, every other day, or even every week. I think we both usually tried for once a week, but sometimes it was two, sometimes a little over.

My point being, I was used to not talking to my dad all the time.

Sometimes I think that stumps my grief. That day to day, this doesn’t always feel different. Even going on a trip, it doesn’t feel different in the moment.

Since my dad was sick and it was obvious that he wasn’t going to be here long, I’ve known there are huge parts of my life that he wouldn’t be here for. I think I’ve accepted those for the most part. Getting engage, getting married, graduating, getting a job, even down to talking through post-doc offers, moving, talking on the phone weekly, etc.

I think it’s more the things that I couldn’t have anticipated. The trips I know he would’ve enjoyed. The specific offers I’m getting, the opportunities I have to move abroad.

He would’ve missed hearing about today. He would’ve liked to be part of today.

I was in Omaha last week for a conference, and thinking of him often, I thought about how much he would be surprised by the food, the cool bars, the people I was talking with.

I flew from Omaha straight to Boston for another conference this week. Tom met me here on Friday and we’ve been exploring until the actual conference starts Tuesday.

I couldn’t help but get emotional at dinner thinking about how happy my dad would’ve been to be here today. He would’ve loved today.

He would’ve loved the history, how kind the people are, all the people in the park. He would’ve sat on a bench for hours and just loved watching people. He would’ve ordered the smoked salmon omelet for brunch. We ordered a raw seafood platter for dinner with lobster bisque and clam chowder. He would’ve loved the oysters, the fact they served everything with vinegar.

I remember the first time he ordered lobster bisque at a soccer dinner I think when I was in middle school and I’ve never been the same. He would’ve sat back happy as a clam (pun intended).

I say all of this not out of regret. I’m so happy and thankful knowing my dad truly did everything on his bucket list. I’m just so sad to think of this things I didn’t know, and maybe he didn’t know, that he would’ve loved and I would’ve loved enjoying with him.

My dad would’ve loved just hearing about my trip to Boston, but I just wish, and am sad that I didn’t have the opportunity to invite him to explore it with me.

We went to fenway yesterday, ate apps at a blues bar outside the stadium, explored the history of Boston, got fresh seafood, sat at the park, and watched the Cardinals vs. Cubs while we ate dinner on the harbor. He would’ve loved every second. And every second I missed him.

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grief pt. 8

Truth be told, I was anxious anticipating my birthday this year. I wasn’t sure what I would feel or how it would go. It ended up being a really great weekend and an incredible day.

The weather was beautiful so we decided to go on a nice run on the river walk before dinner. I was pretty sure I had a voicemail from my dad on my phone from last year and I hadn’t decided if I was going to find it and listen to it. While we were running, I listened to it. Over and over. And then I found a voicemail from him from every year since 2019. Part of me feels guilty that I guess I missed his call at least once the past 5 years, but I’m also really thankful that I did. Because I’ll always get to hear him tell me Happy Birthday. It was really special, to find those voicemails, to hear his voice.

There’s a really nice restaurant in Columbia that I had told Tom that I wanted to take my dad when I graduated because he’d be the person in my family to really appreciate it with me. Tom, my Aunt Jill Hodges and Uncle Ryan Hodges, helped plan a birthday dinner at that very restaurant. It was the best dinner I’ve ever had. And I pictured my dad’s face at every course, his laugh when they brought out the steak and lamb, he would’ve loved it.

Birthdays were never a huge thing growing up. It’s been heartwarming the past couple of weeks for memories to pop up and see the thoughtful things my dad has done the past few years to make it special. A few years ago, he sent me a card with confetti, but obviously not confetti he bought, but that he cut up himself to make. Last year and a couple of years before that, he sent me really beautiful bouquets. I imagine all the time he spent anxious over which one to get, how to make confetti, etc. I hope he knows how much I see his effort and how loved I still feel.

I’ll leave everyone with one more story (a true testament to my dad). About a week before my birthday, I had a dream. In my dream, it was also my birthday this year, the first without my dad. Tom was walking me around being secretive and I kept saying I didn’t want a surprise party, I just wanted to go home and be alone. But he took me to a house that I knew would hold my surprise party anyways. I was wrong though. I opened the door and my dad was sitting there with his arms wide open. I ran and gave him the biggest and longest hug. He kept telling me happy birthday and how much he loved me. I heard his laugh, I saw his smile. It woke me up it felt so real. The next morning, I was telling Tom what a bad dream I had because it was devastating to wake up and know it wouldn’t come true, and how badly I wanted it to be true. And thank you Jesus for Tom Cardaci, who challenged me to think maybe it could be a good dream, that my dad came to me to wish me a Happy Birthday, give me a hug, and remind me how much he loves me.

So it was a hard birthday, but it was also really amazing. And I’m so incredibly thankful for all of you. Sending you each all my love!

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grief pt. 7

I’m writing because I need to feel close to my dad. As time goes on, I feel more distant.

I write because it seems to be the best way for me to be able to articulate all my thoughts and feelings. I internalize everything. And writing is how I get it out. That makes my writing raw and honest. It’s hard for me to ever speak on something that I haven’t yet written about. Somehow it just makes things make a little more sense.

I haven’t written in a few weeks and I can feel it. Since I last wrote, I went to conference in Greenville, SC where I won an award I wish I could tell my dad about. He would’ve been so proud. The first paper of my dissertation was accepted for publication, a milestone I was praying would happen in time at the hospital so he could know and feel how close I was to carrying on Dr. Parker. I moved to a new house where the first thing I hung was his bird stained glass because he would’ve loved standing in the kitchen, cooking and watching the birds in the backyard. I went to another conference in Philadelphia, the last part of my academic journey that he knew about. He would’ve loved to hear about my presentation and the art museum. He would’ve loved that I’ve continued the Spongebob theme of my presentations.

He would’ve been so proud of me. He would’ve smiled through each of those conversations, beaming with pride. He loved me so much. So much that I think it makes it hurt so much more now. God I miss him. I’m so thankful to know and to feel those truths so deeply, but boy does it make grieving hard.

It feels like everything moving forward, academically and personally, would be new to him. I’m surprised by how short of a time it has taken to feel like everything is moving forward and moving on.

This past week when I was in Philadelphia, I realized how exhausted I am, chronically. I’m usually the person thriving at a conference. Networking, talking to people, presenting, those are in my strengths column. But it was enlightening to feel my capacity be so limited. Because I’ve been attributing it to everything else going on, but I’m realizing my baseline, my normal right now, is just less. And that’s okay. But it’s so much less. And it’s because I’m constantly grieving and thinking about my dad. Constantly thinking of what he would be telling me in my life right now, what comments and questions he would have for my new publication, how excited he would be to read it, planning to come see my new house, talking about Cardinal baseball coming up, and so much more.

God, I miss my dad. And it feels like that’s all I have the capacity to do.

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grief pt. 6

I broke down last night.

I could feel it coming. I laid in bed unable to fall asleep for a while. I got up to get a snack with the intention of sitting in the living room and reading my book until I finished and would go back to bed.

I didn’t even make it to the couch before I started crying harder than I have since the week my dad passed away.

I couldn’t sleep because all I could think about was the last days of his life. The last 36 hours. Feeling his hand so lightly squeeze mine back. Somehow knowing in his groan, in his mutterings, that they would be his last. Fighting for him to be pain-free. Watching him disappear. Seeing his pulse through his thin skin, feeling his cheek to see if he was still warm, his breathing becoming mechanical as he transitioned but before his body let him free. Defending any ounce of dignity that he could have in his last moments. And then when I knew he had taken his last breath, touching his chest and feeling how rigid he had become, touching his cheek as time went on to feel him lose his warmth, touching his hand and feeling no connection back. Seeing the family of deer outside his window, on a chilly and rainy morning. Calling Zac to tell him our dad had died and he needed to come. Hugging Zac when he got there, knowing that both of us wanted nothing but to erase this pain for the other. Watching Zac say good-bye to our dad. Seeing a single deer run by the window as he did so. Watching the ‘confirmation’ process and being told his time of death was 6:35am, but me knowing very well he took his last breath at 4:42am that morning. Seeing another single deer run by the window when our Aunt arrived. How he looked, his face, it’s etched in my mind. And knowing that the last time I saw him was being pushed down the hallway in a body bag, watching this cart carrying a purple paisley printed bag knowing that what was inside was my dad’s body, it’s haunting me.

A couple of days before, when my dad arrived to the nursing facility, Zac had brought a suitcase of belongings from his house. My dad had never expected to not go home again. So the morning that he passed, we made sure everything was in his suitcase, his mouthwash, his blanket, his kindle, his notepads, even the german chocolate cake he didn’t get a chance to finish. We put everything in the car to take back to a house that Zac and I suddenly owned.

I went through every step in my head, several times, last night. And I found myself asking him why he left, why he was gone. Internally screaming that I was angry that he was gone, that I wasn’t ready or prepared. Angry at the doctors who didn’t listen, the nurses who didn’t read his chart or his orders correctly, and angry at him for not being here.

I was quick to realize that for every ounce of anger I felt/feel, I’m also so heartbroken for him. He didn’t want this. He never would’ve wanted this for Zac and I. He never would’ve wanted us to know this pain. And I imagine he was looking down on me last night, weeping, wishing he could hug me and take away my pain. I’m also heartbroken knowing that how angry I am, he must’ve felt in his few short days between going to the emergency room and when he passed. I know he was mad when he realized he had been right and justified, and his doctors had dismissed him. I know he was mad when he realized what all he would miss in our lives. I know he was mad when he had to come to terms with his mortality so quickly, and he was already so tired.

I sat on the couch devastated and crying, thinking I’d be up all night, unable to sleep with the images in my head. And now, part of me knows my dad was with me because all I remember is suddenly feeling so exhausted, letting my head fall back, and my eyes closing. I slept on the couch for a few hours and when I woke up, I was able to make it back to bed and fall asleep. I think my dad heard and understood my anger, my sadness, my exhaustion, and he helped me how he could, knowing I needed rest even if I couldn’t find my own peace in the moment.

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grief pt. 5

Today is one month since my dad passed away.

I woke up in the middle of the night and couldn’t fall back asleep. But I couldn’t bear to look at the time and be able to know if it was before or after 4:42am, the time that he passed.

Today, I’ve been angry.

As time has passed, I wondered when I’d feel this way. I’ve spent a lot of time sad and I know that will continue. In the moments I felt angry before, I never screamed or yelled. When I thought it was obvious that he had days, not a month or weeks like I originally thought, the day after he passed, especially during his funeral service, I just cried and I physically shook and I just kept saying that I do not accept this.

His funeral service was the most angry I had been until today. When everyone else was talking, all I could think about was the path between the two buildings of the church. I knew most people there wouldn’t know about it. And all I wanted was to run out of the sanctuary and be able to fall on my knees, crying and screaming that I do not accept this. I do not accept any of this. I wanted to run and hide where no one would see me or be able to find me. I just wanted a second alone with no nurses, no family or friends, no one telling me what bills we owe, no one asking questions, no one asking how I am. I wanted a second to break down and not have to give anything to anyone. I wanted a second for it to be okay to not accept what I knew was reality, a reality that I had to accept.

Today, I still do not accept. I do not accept that I haven’t heard his voice in a month. I do not accept that he’s not coming to visit me. I do not accept that he won’t be there for the rest of my life, all the big adventures and decisions.

Today, I gave my first presentation this semester. And I do not accept that I won’t call him tonight or this weekend to tell him about it. I do not accept that I wasn’t able to call him beforehand and tell him what it was about, talk through the stats and why my question is important.

So today, I’m mad. I’m so mad that this has happened. I’m mad that my dad died. I’m mad that he was dismissed for months by his doctors. I’m mad that he had to face mortality so quickly. I’m mad that Zac had to lose his dad. I’m mad that my aunts had to lose their brother, my cousins their uncle, I’m mad my mom had to watch Zac and I lose our dad so quickly. I’m mad that the medical system doesn’t necessarily train compassion. I’m mad that I had to advocate so fiercely for my dad in his final days. I’m mad I had to ask for so much help. I’m mad that Zac and I lost our dad. I’m mad we had to figure things out so quickly, learn so much.

To summarize, today, I’m mad and I do not accept this reality. Not now, not yet.

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grief pt.4

I internalize a lot.

Writing gives me the opportunity to bring my feelings and emotions to the forefront and actually work through them.

I intellectualize my feelings most of the time. I struggle the most with the ones that I can’t make sense of.

Nothing about grief makes sense.

Nothing about losing a parent in a matter of days makes sense.

Nothing about this process is easy.

Not the logistical side, not the emotional side, not the side that makes me want to scream and yell, not the side that makes me want to feel him squeeze my hand one more time, not the side that needs him to tell me what to do and give me direction, not the side that sees so much of my life ahead of me and now has to see it completely without him.

In all of this, it’s the easiest for me to intellectualize and ‘know’ the reality.

My dad is gone.

My dad will never call me again.

I will no longer hear his voice.

He will not be at my graduation.

He will not dance with me at my wedding.

My dad will not meet my children.

The list can go on forever. I know these things. I know them to be true and to be fact.

To me, expectations are a lot more emotional. Expectations don’t always make sense to me, sometimes they just are. I wrote before that I expected to expect.

But it wasn’t just his death that I expected to expect.

I expected him to visit me this week. Because that’s what we planned.

I expected to be able to give him his Christmas present. Because I already knew where it would hang.

I expected to talk through the 2024 presidential election (and every one after that). Because I knew he would have passion and fire about it.

I expected to have at least an hour long conversation about every one of my dissertation papers. Because he always argued qualitatively and I argued with quantitative data.

I expected him to be at my graduation. Because I know it would’ve been one of the proudest moments of his life.

I expected him to visit me wherever in the world I choose to do a post-doc. Because he encouraged my adventurous spirit, something he always wanted more of.

I expected him to come visit me in my first position being a tenure-track faculty, with a sign that said ‘Dr. Parker’ to put on my desk. Because he would have said that I made it.

I expected him to be anxious in the days leading up to my wedding. Because he would want it and him to be everything I wanted.

I expected him to meet my kids, teach them about Cardinal baseball, sing ‘Forever Young’ to them, take them fishing. Because all he wanted was to be a grandfather.

I expected to have hard conversations with him. I expected some of these expectations to be difficult. Because he mattered, I care for him, I love him, and my relationship with him is one of the most important in my life.

There are just so many expectations. This is what I’ve been struggling with the past few days. How to let go of abstract ideas, things never spoken out loud, assumptions we both had because we wanted them. Expectations that will never be met and not from his doing or lack thereof. Expectations that can no longer exist. Expectations that have to turn into wishes or dreams or fantasies of what would’ve happened, what could’ve been. And that is really hard to wrap my head around and accept.

So for now, my expectations are to struggle. I expect for each of these days, each of these chapters listed above to be a little more difficult, wishing he were there. I expect to find joy in each, knowing his smile that would spread across his face, finding joy because he would be joyful.

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grief pt. 3

Yesterday and today were particularly hard.

What has kept me up the past couple of nights has shifted. Typically, it has been missing my dad. Wishing I could call him and tell him updates on my life, tell him what’s going on. As time went on and our typical time without talking had passed, missing him and yearning to hear his voice and his words of comfort definitely got bigger.

But I’ve started to feel distant.

It’s not just that I miss him. I’ve been missing him.

It’s not just that he’s gone. He’s been gone.

It’s starting to go beyond just that it’s been longer than normal. It’s sinking in that even what previously ‘is’ or ‘is happening’ or anything present tense, is now transforming into something past tense.

I knew this would come. It’s a new wave and deepness of sadness. I try to feel his presence, to pray to him, to think about him holding my hand his last days, hugging me with his biggest smile when I would come home from school, his voice when he would sing while playing guitar in the living room, how his voice was different when he sang me to sleep when I was little. I try to remember and recount his stories that he would tell.

But I don’t always feel him. Sometimes I know what he would say and I can hear him saying that to me. Or I can almost feel him hug me. But I’m not sure I know what it feels like to feel connected to him in this new phase. And I’m terrified I won’t ever feel that connection again.

I just miss my dad. And the sadness has been nothing short of overbearing and overwhelming the past couple of days.

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grief pt. 2

Today is January 28th, 2024.

Last Sunday, January 21st, I realized it was exactly 3 weeks into the New Year.

I realized after I signed the papers to sell my dad’s house.

In 3 weeks, my dad went to the hospital, got 3/4 of a diagnosis, had our last meaningful conversations, wrote his will, signed over his house and car to Zac and I, moved him to a nursing home. He stopped eating and drinking, stopped being lucid, became unresponsive, passed away. Zac and I planned his funeral, we had his service, we went through all of his things. We paid off his mortgage, started an endowed scholarship in his name, and I came back to Columbia with basically everything out of the house or organized so we knew where everything else was going. And I signed the papers to sell his house.

And now it’s January 28th, exactly 4 weeks, one month, into the New Year.

I’m both exhausted and overstimulated. I don’t want to keep living the same life that I was before, and yet I don’t want anything to change outside of what he knew my life to be. I both want to be distracted and want to only think of his voice and words he said to me so I’ll never forget. I want so badly to finally be unpacked and my house to be cleaned and organized again, but I can’t stand the thought of going back through everything again. I want to make him proud, but I don’t want to do anything or accomplish anything without him here to go through it with me. I’m afraid of how long it will take to find my new normal, and I’m afraid of the new normal itself.

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