My dad’s birthday on Tuesday was incredibly hard. I had been doing okay leading up to it, hurting but not falling apart. My husband and I met up with my sister, brother-in-law, and nephew at a Mexican restaurant Dad liked down here to have dinner the night before Dad’s birthday. We raised our margaritas to toast Dad and my nephew adorably wanted to cheers with the rest of us. I think Mom and Dad taught him that, and it always makes my heart squeeze with a reminder of how much I adore him, and now how much Dad loved his grandson. Dinner was really good and I didn’t cry until late at night when it hit me that for the second time the next morning would be Dad’s birthday and how unfair it was that he couldn’t celebrate that with Mom.
All in all, though, I’d done better emotionally than last year, so I wasn’t prepared to kind of fall apart on the actual day. Plus, to make the day even crappier, on top of missing him, this year had the addition of occasional semi-morbid thoughts. One was wondering what the analogy would be to drinking a margarita or milkshake be if things go bad for me. I know that’s self-centered and probably egotistical, but I also suspect it’s normal for someone with stage iv cancer on the birthday of her dad who is up in Heaven instead of here on Earth where she could call him.
I spent most of the day on the couch rewatching the first half of season 2 of Supergirl. Dad had said that her optimism reminded him of me so it seemed fitting, even though he only saw most of season 1 and, obviously, none of season 2. I had thought of decluttering or cleaning since, when I was a kid, Dad used to spend hours helping me clean my room on weekends. I was awful at doing it on my own — it seemed overwhelming, plus I was super easily distracted by any book that I picked up to put away. It was easier with my dad patiently helping me and making sure I didn’t start reading any books I picked up. With books, I have always had the self-control of a beagle with steak.
Not being able to call and wish Dad a happy birthday hurt so damn much. Despite that, multiple times throughout the day I thought/prayed variations on, “As awful as this is, I don’t want this to be the last time I’m alive for Dad’s birthday. I want to be raising a margarita and drinking a milkshake to him for years and years to come.”
I guess that’s the basic nature of grief. As awful as it is — at least it’s preceded by love. The pain of grief is better than not having loved someone enough to feel a deep pain at their absence. I hate that Dad is gone and I hate the pain of missing him, but I’m grateful to both still be here to feel that pain, and to have had such a wonderful dad in the first place. He really was the very best. I’m grateful to be his daughter.