In honor of the sixth anniversary of my Dad’s passing, I wrote him a letter. I am sharing this today, hoping that it may resonate or provide comfort to someone else who is also grieving. – Liz
Dear Dad,
It’s been 2,191 days since you took your last breath. It may have been six years ago, but I remember it so vividly. It was strange – while my world was crashing down, it was just another Wednesday morning for everyone else. I remember sitting in the chair beside you all night because I was afraid you would die alone if I left the room. I made it through the night eating gummy bears and playing your favorite songs on your iPad. You might be the only person I know who would find comfort in your final moments listening to Credence Clearwater and Arlo Gurthrie. Then morning came, and your breathing slowed. And I remember that last breath – it was a long, deep inhale. And then an extended exhale. And that was it. I just kept thinking – hoping – you’d open your eyes. Sit up, get your shoes on, and get on with the day as if nothing happened. But you didn’t. You were grey. You were still. You were peaceful. You were gone.
I was scrolling through old photos of you and then found myself enthralled by photos of this past year. I couldn’t believe how much my kids grew. I enjoyed reliving all the silly faces we made, the adventures we went on, the slides we went down, the pools we splashed in, the steps we climbed, the hills we jumped off, the pictures we colored, the messes we made, the ice cream we ate, the rocks we collected, the balls we kicked, the people we met, the friends we made, the life we lived. And what a blessed year it was. But I couldn’t help but notice what was missing. You.
Last week, as we came up on the anniversary of losing you, we had our annual Grandpa Billy night with burgers at Zips followed by ice cream at Graeter’s. I told my 4-year-old she could get two treats at Graeter’s – one for her and one for Grandpa Billy. She responded, “ohh then I get to eat two treats because I get to eat Grandpa Billy’s treat because he can’t eat a treat because he’s dead.” I had to give it to her. She wasn’t wrong. And I just imagined your infamous face trying not to smile as you listened to her reasoning. It’s exactly what you would have said. Anything for extra treats.
It’s been quite a year to get to this point – finding humor in how a preschooler understands the concept of death. But I’m happy for that glimmer of hope. Most of this year has been filled with tears explaining heaven to my little girl. It started last spring when I took my daughter to The Bill Keating, Jr. Memorial Cincinnati Para-Swim Open. I invited her to go with me to Grandpa Billy’s favorite pool to see his friends race. She was beyond ecstatic to join me, skipping and squealing as we headed in. We went upstairs and looked out over the balcony into the pool. She looked up at me and asked, “where’s Grandpa Billy?” My heart sank. She was excited to go to the meet because she thought she’d see you. Tears streamed down my face. How do you explain to a 3-year-old her Grandpa was dead?
On Father’s Day, we went to visit you at the cemetery. There were geese everywhere and my kids were mesmerized watching them waddle around the open, grassy fields. Your grandkids put pennies on your grave marker and stuck sticks in the ground to decorate your space. I loved watching their faces filled with joy as they played, but my heart broke inside. This was not how I imagined my kids playing with their Grandpa Billy. This was not how I wanted them to know you. But this was the hand I was dealt. Then my daughter looked up at me and asked, “hey Mama, can Grandpa Billy fly?” And for a brief moment, my heart lifted. My kids think you’re magical. And I love that.
Then came her birthday. She turned four. Her previous two birthdays were quarantined, so it was a big deal to have her cousins over to celebrate. It was mermaid-unicorn-themed, filled with pink and purple treats. Your grandkids ran around filled with sugar, having a blast. After everyone left, I caught my daughter standing by herself staring out the front window, looking sad. I put my arm around her and asked if she had fun with her cousins. She looked at me and asked, “why didn’t Grandpa Billy come to my party?” I’ll never forget that moment. I hadn’t felt that kind of gut punch since you died. She thought you didn’t show up for her. How do you explain to a little girl that you would have been there? That you wouldn’t have only been there for the special days, but you would have been there for the regular days. You would have celebrated her the day she learned to touch the bottom of the pool, the day she wrote her name for the first time, and the day she zipped up her coat all by herself. You would have timed how fast she could run in her new shoes, measured her cannonball splashes, and cheered her on as she finished a big kid puzzle. I can’t help but feel my kids were cheated by losing you before they were born.
But sometimes it does feel like you’re here. Because the other day my kids pointed out a picture of you on the fridge. My daughter gave me a hug and said, “Mama, we all miss your Dada. We all love Grandpa Billy.” And my 2-year-old son followed with “I love Grandpa Billy.” True, he would have said “I love ___” fill-in-the-blank with whatever his sister said. But for that moment, it’s what I needed to hear. And it reminded me that life can go on without you. And my kids will show me the way.
You’d get a kick out of your grandson. In fact, he’s so much like you. He’s super social, always happy, and finds humor in the most random things. He can’t start his day without raisins, he loves swimming more than anything, he wants to share every book he reads, and he prefers dogs from a safe distance. He loves to hold onto my shoulders while I kick laps in the pool – just as I did with you when I was little. I took him to a statue unveiling for work one day. We stood towards the back of the stage – because toddlers are a little squirmy and we didn’t want to be disruptive. We were behind the statue when the cover was pulled off. Your grandson immediately looked up, pointed, and shouted, “B U T T!” I quickly turned around to hide my laughter and all I wanted to do was call you. Because I knew you’d find it hilarious and you’d have more entertaining stories about the campaign trail with Grandpa, Grandma, your siblings, and all your cousins. I loved your stories. I miss the way your face lit up telling your stories. Thanks for teaching me life is about living the fun moments together. That the greatest memories are never the big things. In fact, they are the little, inconsequential days that you look back on and realize how blessed life truly is.
More and more, I find myself pulling from the lessons you taught me throughout my life. For example, the best place for all that preschool artwork is on your office wall. My office at City Hall is covered in artwork. So is your old refrigerator door – there isn’t an inch of free space on that fridge. Although, I do need to improve my magnet collection compared to yours. Remember when I colored you a picture of your beloved Grandma that hung for years on your fridge door in your office? I can’t wait for the day my daughter – who is named after your beloved Grandma – draws me a picture of you to hang up. Someday she will. And I’ll tell her how much it means to me, just as you’d tell me how much my drawing meant to you.
You used to bring me to work with you to expose me to career opportunities and you’d be sure to introduce me to women you admired. You wanted your little girl to dream big. So, I’ve started to take my daughter to different work events to expose my little girl to the working world. After a long day at City Hall, I asked if she wanted to go home and she responded, “maybe I can go with you, but I have to go to a meeting first.” She may envision her future full of meetings, but I’ll continue to inspire her the way you inspired me.
My favorite lesson of yours that stood out the most this year was kindness. “You can always be mean tomorrow,” you’d always say, “but not today. Life is too short to be mean today.” The world continues to become more polarized. And many people are mean. They blame and shame those different from them. But you taught us – and you showed us – that mindset was not productive. And I think about that each and every day. I can always be mean tomorrow, But, today I need to be helpful. I need to live my life in the little moments that matter. I need to be the best example for my kids as they grow up. And I need to be sure my kids know how much I love them. Because the greatest gift you gave me was knowing you loved me and you believed in me. I’m grateful for that.
I hate that you’re gone. I hurt that my kids have never known you. But, I’ll be mean about it tomorrow. Today, I’ll be grateful for the life I had with you. Grief is a long, winding journey and I’ll figure out how to be sure my kids know they are loved by you. Even if you aren’t here. But, boy do I wish you were. I miss you, Dad. I miss you every day.
When I count my blessings, I count you twice.
Love,
Liz (AG)
Dear Dad (Year 1)
Dear Dad (Year 2)
Dear Dad (Year 3)
Dear Dad (Year 4)
Dear Dad (Year 5)
