18 months. A lot can happen in 18 months, but at the same time, a lot cannot happen in 18 months. 18 months ago, my dad suffered an Anoxic Brain injury, and since then he has never been the same. It’s weird because I know he is there, and I know he can hear me because I can sense it and because I know he would never choose to leave me. But at times, it feels hard to believe that, when I sit by his bedside, or sit on the Facetime with him, and tell him stories, and struggle to even get a “yes” from him, or a squeeze of my fingers. But believe me, when I do, without fail, a grin forms on my face, and it instantly becomes a good day.
It’s strange too because some days I have come to terms with this and I’ve accepted it. Then, the next day, I struggle to do even the most basic task because my thoughts are consumed with missing Dad and wishing this reality is not true. But, I never know when I wake up in the morning, if I am going to be ok, or if the littlest thing is going to set me off and derail me for the rest of the day, or even the rest of the week.
I think the hardest thing is these little things that make me miss him so much or the way he used to be. It’s every time I blow dry my hair after a shower, and I remember how my dad used to blow dry my hair every night creating our very own Bibbidity Bobbidity Boutique. It was every morning getting ready for my internship when I was ironing my dress clothes, and I would remember how my dad ironed my dress shifts every night, so I never went to school with a wrinkled dress shirt. It’s every time I go back to school, and I walk to security at the airport by myself, I remember how my dad would carry all my bags with me to security, and break down into tears when he finally had to leave. It’s every time I am writing an essay for school, and I want someone to read over it, and my dad is not there to do it for me. It’s every time I am craving a steak, and my dad isn’t there to make his famous peppercorn steak with smashed potatoes. It’s every night when I go to bed, and I don’t hear his voice telling me “Don’t let the bed bugs bite”. It’s every time I play the guitar at home, and my dad doesn’t come to sit in the room silently just to listen to me play. It’s when I do well on a test and I can’t hear him telling me he’s proud of me. It was when I turned 19, the legal drinking age in Canada, and my dad, the wine connoisseur, couldn’t tell me all his favorite wines that he would want me to try.
In every way, I feel like I am grieving, except I’m not because he’s there, he’s alive, but he is not like how he used to be, he doesn’t feel like my dad, and it is hard to explain this to anyone. It sounds awful to say, and you couldn’t possibly understand the feeling unless you felt it yourself. So, I never really explain how I feel or am doing with people. Most people don’t even know that my dad is in the hospital because when I do open up, I am often met with comments to remain positive, or that it will just take time, or that it could be worse. Even worse, I’ve been met with insensitive jokes, eye rolls, and even been told to “get over it.” So, I began to push all these feelings back, I acted like it wasn’t happening, and I buried myself in activities to distract myself from what was going on. Now I have realized that I can’t do that anymore, I finally have to confront the fact that it is happening, and I am grieving.
It’s 18 months later, and so much has changed in my life, but one thing has remained constant I miss my dad.
Yours Truly,
Cara
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