Kintsukuroi

It's been a month since Daddy died. Well, that's not quite right. It's been a month since Daddy's lungs gave out and his body ceased to function. In all honesty, most of the man who helped make me who I am had been eroded away already. There were barely glimmers anymore of the man he was. 

The summer of 2019, Daddy was diagnosed with dementia. What had started as a little memory loss, when the man who knew everybody's name had to start asking Momma what someone's name was, became so much worse, so fast.

By Thanksgiving, he got lost on the way to the restroom in a house he'd been to hundreds of times.  The man who had never met a stranger started to freak out when he couldn't find Momma among the sea of unfamiliar faces consisting of family and friends he had known for decades.

It was sad and scary. But on January 6th, 2020, reality truly hit me for the first time. Our car needed repairs. The mechanic said it would be $600 and he could fix it. He also said it would be a waste of money because the car was too old and it wouldn't hold. The same repair would be due again within six months. My first reaction was to call Daddy. He could tell me if that was real or BS. He'd have some practical advice on what to do next, just like he always did. He would help me find a path. 

When I realized that while I could still call him, he wouldn't have any idea what I was talking about, and he might not even know who I was, it broke me a little. The next day, Dan and I walked into a dealership and walked out with a car we liked on our own. Instead of being happy that we had finally taken that step on our own, we had the best vehicle we'd had in years, and we had credit that didn't require a co-signer, I was traumatized by a new reality. 

And I say it broke me a little, but I thought I was fully broken. Now, knowing what the final death of the man who was once my Daddy has done to me, I know I was only a little bit broken. That first realization reminded me of the time he had surgery on his shoulder. I guess he started to wake up during surgery so he scratched his eye on something and they had to give him more anesthetic than expected to put him back under. I was in the back room when he came home. He had a patch over his eye and he looked weak. Daddy never looked weak, even when he was sick. I was twelve and it was the first time it occurred to me that my Daddy was mortal. Until then, I had been working under the assumption that he was too strong to be hurt and he would live forever. 

I would take that scare a hundred times over this pain and emptiness. I actually thought I was doing ok, at first. I wrote his obituary, planned out the funeral, and we got through that weekend. On Monday, I helped Momma call the Railroad Retirement Board and on Tuesday we called Social Security. Then I got the obituary into the Marysville newspaper. Then I was out of things to do. 

I tried the things I have learned help me deal. I went back to work. I hung out with friends and played games. I read books and listened to music. The distraction were all ok while they lasted, but the second I had a moment of quiet, the truth that Daddy was truly gone, that he would never have another good day, there was no hope of a cure for him, or even a respite from the deterioration of the man he had been, slammed into me again. Over and over and over.

I lost all the healthier habits I have worked so hard to build this past year and started looking to comfort food to fill the void. If someone around me had a cookie, I had to have a cookie. When I saw, or smelled, or heard anyone talk about fast food, I craved it hard core. I lost all my impulse control. Then, seeing the backsliding, the anxiety kicked in that I was going to lose everything I had worked for. 

Next came the guilt. Layers of guilt. Guilt that I was glad the pod person who used to be my Daddy was no longer tormenting Momma and destroying the memory of the man he had been. Guilt that I wanted to be happy the disease was finally done with him. Guilt that I didn't have the willpower to maintain my healthy habits. Guilt that I didn't even care that I was setting out to ruin my health again. Guilt that I wasn't strong enough. Strong enough to eat right. Strong enough to go to work. Strong enough to even function. My Daddy was strong and I was failing him. 

What I thought was broken before was merely foreshadowing of what I thought was my new reality. I was fluctuating between being inconsolable and being a black hole, empty of all emotion and sucking everything else into it. I didn't know how much longer I could take it. 

I have the best people. They surround me and help me stand. They not only give me grace, but remind me to show myself the same kindness. Even so, I have had to start taking an antidepressant again. I was devastated. I had worked so hard to get rid of so many meds. It felt like backtracking, but the meds have been a life saver, again. 

How long will I be grieving? I have heard that it will only last as long as Daddy is dead. I can believe that. Maybe after a while, it won't feel so stabby when I think of Momma & Daddy and then realize it's just Momma. I hope that thinking about Daddy won't always cause a heavy weight to crush my chest. I want to remember what a great dad he was and how hard he worked to break the cycle of trauma and give his kids a better childhood than he had. I want to remember all the great things and show my kids love and strength and family that he taught me about. 

When I told DJ that one of the pillars of who I am had come crashing down and I didn't know how to hold myself together, he told me that I was wrong. (He likes to do that). He told me that the pillar I was referring to was what Daddy had helped me build. Even though Daddy is gone, the pillar he helped create in me is still strong. As cliche as it sounds, he told me that Daddy would live on in me because of that foundation. As cheesy as that sounds, it comforts me. 

My therapist tells me to focus on living in a way that honors Daddy and our relationship. I have already been doing that in the relationships I have worked to create with my own kids, and the family that Dan and I have built. 

Momma and Shay-Shay have both suggested that I could write a letter to Daddy, to say any things that were left unsaid. I realize there is no need for that. It won't help me because there is nothing left unspoken. I have never, in my life, doubted my Daddy's love for me and as long as he remembered who I was, he knew that I loved him, too. What more is left to say? 

I have been shattered by the loss of my Daddy. With the help of my people, I am picking up the pieces. I will use his memory as the gold to hold the pieces together until I am restored, stronger and more beautiful than before. I will always love you, Daddy.

"All of us get broken in some way. What matters is how we get up and put the pieces back together again." - David Kessler in Finding Meaning: The Sixth Stage of Grief