Fear, Grace and Silver Linings in the Age of a Pandemic

I wanted to write a piece on having grace in this pandemic, but I’m literally the last person who should do that. I’ve lost track of how many times I’ve said, “I hate everyone” in the last month. Grace seems to be the one quality that eludes me. I’m swimming in the feelings of anger, betrayal, superiority and self righteousness. Those emotions have, over the last week, settled into their base components of fear, grief, disappointment and despair. At the bottom of it all, I am so sad. Sadness is my least favorite emotion. I never know quite what to do with sadness, but I feel compelled to sit with it for the moment. I feel like sadness may be the one emotion that can propel me in the right direction.

I am going to try to steer clear of politicizing this or fall into the trap of trying to debunk the myriad of conspiracy theories we’ve all seen on social media and YouTube. Greater minds than mine have offered analysis to those theories and if you don’t believe them, I can’t imagine anything I say will make a difference. However, I would like to introduce a presupposition for the rest of this blog. It’s simply that COVID is an actual disease, and that it is contagious and has a higher mortality rate than the flu. I know people are still debating the later part of that statement, because we don’t have our arms around how many people actually have been infected with COVID. But that problem is hardly unique to COVID. We never have a real number of people infected with the flu each year either. So hopefully we can at least agree on that. Additionally, context is important to perspective, and I’d like to give you a little insight into why I feel and believe the way I do. 

When I was 29 years old I contracted viral meningitis. I was in the best shape of my life. I was single and childless and I worked out like it was my second job. I was rocking. I was pretty sure nothing could knock me down, and then one day I got a headache that didn’t go away. The headache spread into a backache and I quickly found myself overcome with fatigue. Within days, I was having lapses in memory and trouble with word finding. The pain was like nothing I’d experienced. I would be on percocet round the clock for the next three months. I remember my brother talking to me and I kept asking him to repeat himself. Although I knew he was speaking English, I could not understand what he was saying. I cried in my neurologists office and asked if I’d be stupid forever. He assured me I would not be, but that it would be a long road. I couldn’t work full time again for almost three months. My first day back I remember trying to put things in alphabetical order seemed like a monumental and exhausting task. It was devastating and humbling and it was the first time I realized how quickly things can be taken from you. It was the first time I realized that you can only mind over matter until your mind doesn’t matter, and your body betrays you. 

I became a hospice nurse in 1999. I’ve spent the better part of the last two decades watching people die. I have a short list of diagnoses I don’t want to die of. I have a shorter list of diagnoses that might make me see suicide as a viable alternative to the disease process in front of me. COVID does not fall into the later, but it does fall into the former. When it is severe it is devastating. You know of the respiratory issues. We are learning about the associated hyper coagulation leading to strokes and blood clots in the lungs and extremities. Just as people begin to feel they are recovering their own immune system goes into hyper-drive between day 7 and day 10, leading to a number of inflammatory processes that are life altering if not deadly. People have ended up in burn units, because their skin seems to inflame and unravel off them. People have lost limbs. People have gone into multi system organ failure and end up on dialysis. People are on the vent for days, weeks, months. Multiple hospital systems have the same shared data that 30% of COVID patients that enter the ICU never leave. Those that do are not going home back to life as it was. They are looking at months or years of rehab and are likely forever altered. They will not be the same. Their family will not be the same.

Luckily, in most of the United States we have not exceeded our capacity to care for them. If we do, bedside providers and administrative staff will be tasked with navigating how to decide who receives the resources and who doesn’t. It’s a bio-ethical nightmare. The moral distress of those choices will never leave the healthcare workers involved. We will carry it with us always. Already healthcare systems are preparing for this. Policies and practice are being developed for when we may have to take someone who is benefiting from artificial ventilation off the vent, because the guy in the next bed has a better chance. It will be battlefield triage. It will be necessary and it will be reasonable, but it will be an avoidable death. In my mind it will never be right.  The time to do what is right will have passed us by then. You may find comfort knowing that you have a clean health history and you are young and strong, but it’s not that simple. If you are a police officer shot in the line of duty or a firefighter who falls off a roof and you need a vent, but the COVID patient next to you has a better chance, you will not get the vent. I think people fail to realize there won’t only be a shortage of resources for those unfortunate enough to have severe COVID. There will be a shortage for everyone. Trauma patients, cancer patients, postpartum moms who hemorrhage, everyone will lack resources. It will come down to who has the best chance of good outcome. We are not moral police and you don’t want us to be, that is a slippery slope for healthcare. We treat the drunk driver and their victim the same. If you need heroic medicine your chance of getting it relies on who is in the bed next to you. 

In the beginning it truly did feel like we were all in this together. I think it’s obvious to everyone that is no longer the case. There seems to be two factions with variations within them, but for the most part there are the Skywalkers and Yodas. I keep thinking of that scene in Empire Strikes Back where Luke wants to go save his friends and prepares to leave even as Yoda tells him he is not ready. Luke say’s “I am not afraid”. To which Yoda replies “You will be”. 

As a member of the Yoda faction let me be clear I hope to God I am wrong. I have never wanted to be wrong so badly in my life. I hope this is an overreaction. I hope it’s never as bad as I fear it could become. However in the face of nearly 100,000 deaths in four months and a skyrocketing unemployment rate I feel there is much to fear, for all of us. 

The paradox of these factions is that moving forward with the supposition that there really is little to fear in relaxing infection control measures, and we have a catastrophic outcome with an overloaded healthcare system and rolling shutdowns. Those who preached sustained early shutdown will claim they were right. Alternatively the supposition that there is much to fear, and acting on that notion by sustained masking and social distancing will likely lead to the health system not being overwhelmed, and there will be no second wave that shuts us down again. Those who believe it was all an overreaction can claim that they were right all along. Sometimes we become victims of our own success. I hope that those of us who error on the side of paranoia suffer that fate. 

Fear

Fear. We hate it. It’s weak. Losers are motivated by fear. It’s completely un-American. Or is it? Fear is instinctual. Fear keeps you alive. Fear keeps you from making some bad fucking decisions in life. I am admittedly terrified by COVID. I am so frightened for those who have already been affected either in health or economics. I am fearful that I or a loved one may suffer the same fate. Unless you’re delusional this is not a “buck up camper” moment. It’s been proposed by a particular news station that now is the time for courage. We should be brave and get back out there. I never understood how painfully dismissive it is to hear things like “it will be OK” or “don’t be afraid” until things weren’t OK and I had good reason to be afraid. Such easy words are most often spoken by someone who either has an agenda, lacks empathy, or has never known loss. They are the words of someone who leads from behind. It’s not necessarily from bad intentions. I know that. The intention is to push you forward, and keep you from getting stuck in fear. But when you put it in such simplistic terms you lead from behind, and no one is ever really following the person who leads from behind. So, when you are not afraid but your friend is. Please ask them why they are afraid. They may have very good reasons to fear. Then, if it isn’t already obvious how you can ease the fear, ask how you can help. It’s likely there is something you can do. That is how you lead from the front. 

I realize some people still see no reason to fear in this pandemic. Some people think it’s politically motivated and perhaps a hoax. I suspect they are the most afraid of all of us, or they wouldn’t resort to that level of denial and magical thinking. I’m not knocking it. I wish that is where I was right now. I have utilized both coping mechanisms as a respite in times when I needed an escape. If you are one of those people, I don’t blame you, but I’ve got nothing for you. I wish you were right, but all evidence points to the contrary. 

Grace

Grace has been so hard for me. I hate that grace eludes me, because I am so grateful for the grace others have given me. I try to pride myself on being liberal with grace when it comes to others. As we grow we see life through all of our experiences. It filters our perceptions, and when we are healthy we view others from a high place with no obstructions. We can pull in all of our experiences and knowledge to view those around us. When we are in crisis, it’s as if we fall into a hole or narrow canyon and our view is obstructed. We can only see others through that narrow view and sometimes that view does not include grace. 

I am in that hole. I see the person and their offensive action and I see nothing else. When people advertise on social media that they are not wearing masks and are not social distancing, from my hole I translate it into a very personal “Fuck you, I don’t give a shit if my actions kill your husband. This is convenient for me, I think public health is stupid, and I do what I want.” I realize that I am the last thing on their mind when they do this. They certainly have no intention of putting Garry at risk. Some of these people have gone above and beyond to show love and support for us through Garry’s cancer, but now all I see is a person who seems to have forgotten that there are people like Garry out there, and I feel betrayed. As a wife, as a mother and as a nurse, I feel betrayed. It’s not reasonable. These are not people we are even going to see for probably months, and I love them. I respect them. I’m closely related to some of them. But I am so hurt by them because I’m so in the thick of it, and I feel forgotten. I feel like my plight has been abandoned.  

My New Years resolution was to rest. I didn’t want to be challenged or take on anything new. I am battle weary from cancer and grad school. I am so tired. I’m broken and altered and in many ways lost. But then COVID happened, and I feel I must battle on. I’m not even sure what or who I’m swinging at. I want to get out of the pandemic with relationships intact, and it’s really hard. So what do I do? Well, I started by going off social media. I’m not in a place to receive other people well. I’m doing all of us a favor by not looking. I’m not sure I am presenting well either (maybe not the best time to write a blog, but hey, I’m not on social media, so no one will ever read this). I also changed my voters registration. Sorry Dad, please don’t come back and haunt me but I’m officially unaffiliated. My previous political party hadn’t aligned with my faith or values for a long time. It actually feels amazing to be free of that yoke. I’m social distancing for real. I’m not just physical distancing. I’m really distancing myself, because I’m tender right now. I don’t trust myself to not cause hurt, and I don’t trust myself to not get hurt. It won’t last. I’m an extrovert and I love too many of you to not reengage sooner than later. But for the moment it feels safer. If my adulthood has taught me anything it’s that I crave safety above all else. I don’t function well if I don’t feel safe. I guess that even if I can’t find grace now, I’m doing my best to be able to salvage it in the near future. 

Silver Linings

When Garry got sick our lives hung on one word. Time. Would we ever have enough time. Time with each other time for him and our son. Time became the most precious commodity in our lives, and there was never enough. I told our son the other day, “I think we will all look back on this time with great fondness”. He looked at me like I had just grown an extra head and said, “I don’t think I will”. He’s ten and misses his friends, but I’m sure when he is grown he will think of it differently. This time is a gift. I don’t want to miss it because I’m angry and frightened. That would be tragically regrettable. 

Aside from time I have learned to lean on my husband again. I think when he got sick, I stopped. Survival told me I needed to be fully self sufficient sooner than later, because at any point I was one bad scan and weeks away from being a widow. So, I stopped letting myself need him, and I didn’t know how to reverse that once he got well. Then COVID showed up and handed me my very first existential crisis (good God I hope it’s my last). COVID dropped me and Garry caught me. The man is an oak. He always has been. He’s beyond fair. He’s so reasonable it’s irritating. He grounds me, and for some inexplicable reason he adores me. The English language lacks the words to explain how good it feels to lean on him again. I feel safe. It’s a beautiful silver lining. 

Moving Day

I wrote this a while ago and have sat on it for a lot of reasons. Number 1 the way I cope and the way Garry copes are very different. He wants privacy and I need to share everything. It’s a tricky balance between me feeling muzzled and isolated to him feeling exposed. But also, because I’m not very proud of myself for this one. I’m sad and a little ashamed. However a dear male friend of mine recently told me that he has always loved and respected my vulnerability. He encouraged me to never stop practicing vulnerability. Also, I started this blog for two reasons. It’s cathartic for me, but I also hope to give voice to things other people are experiencing. I had a really hard time finding resources that were relatable when Garry got sick. They all seemed very sterile and PC. Not my style. Life with cancer is a lot uglier than that. I’m uglier than that.

We’ve all experienced a moment when someone’s words force you to look at who you are. It’s as if they made you look in a mirror. Sometimes you like what you see and sometimes you don’t, but I’m getting ahead of myself. Let me back up a little.

Recently, I diagnosed Garry and myself with post cancer stress disorder. Granted it’s not a real diagnosis and diagnosing is outside of my scope of practice.  BUT the fact remains that we both freak out about things that never would have bothered us before. You know about my risk aversion. I am terrified of anyone I love or even myself getting hurt. Garry’s stress is more psychological and insidious, and I haven’t always alleviated it. In many ways I’ve compounded it.

When Garry was diagnosed I remember having the surreal thought of “So, this is what will make me a widow”. Slowly but surely I psychologically moved into what I call “the widows waiting room”. I knew I might be able to leave the widows waiting room by the same door I entered, but I also knew I was likely to have to pass through the other door, the door that leads to widowhood. I became obsessed with widows in my life. I watched them like a stalker. I wanted to know how they stayed strong, what got them through, and more importantly how were their kids coping? I obsessed on them and I made my peace with becoming one of them. What I saw was encouraging. These women were so strong and brave and kept putting one foot in front of the other, for their children if not themselves. It gave me comfort that I could walk that road too, if I had to. But Garry didn’t die. The cancer died. He’s here today with no evidence of disease, and I’m still living in a widow’s waiting room. I’m scared to move out. I’m not sure I know how, and I don’t really remember what life was like outside of this room.

Garry has been well for the better part of the last year, and I have very consciously decided to stay in the widows waiting room. I thought I could stay here and no one would notice, except maybe my closest friends. I know it’s counter intuitive. I know it seems like a place I should run from at the first sign of an opening, but it’s not that simple. Being plucked from my happy normal life and dropped in the widow’s waiting room was more painful than I can explain, but I’ve gotten used to being here. I’ve gotten used to pondering and preparing for all the bad things. I’m afraid to leave, because what if I have to come back? In my mind it made more sense to stay than to face the pain of leaving only to be forced back months or years from now. Staying in this room, in this psychological place, was purely for my protection. It was my way of buffering a potential fall. It is a way to anesthetize my life.

Kate Bowler, author of Everything Happens for a Reason and Other Lies I’ve Loved, writes about the realization that her cancer was the most painful thing that happened to those she loved the most. She goes so far as to say that she is the worst thing that’s ever happened to them. No one thinks that when they look at a sick loved one, but the sick person feels responsible for the pain they cause however out of their control it is. Cancer gives everything an edge. Even love and joy will cut you, because you know they may not last. Loving a person with a life limiting illness hurts, and it probably hurts them even more to love you back. You are potentially saying goodbye to them. They are potentially saying goodbye to everyone, even their children.

It is normal to start grieving someone before they die. It’s called early bereavement. There are counselors who specialize in this. I’d be lying if I said I hadn’t started grieving Garry’s potential death years ago. I probably started grieving him almost as soon as we had a diagnosis. It hurts. It will wreck you. When you suffer from a prolonged pain, physical or mental, you will eventually find ways to numb it. For me it was tasks. I stayed busy. I planned and worked towards making life easier if BD and I were to become a family of two. It numbed the pain. It was progress and motion and it gave me a sense of control. I got used to this life. I found other ways to cope that included distancing myself emotionally from Garry, and it became my normal, semi-comfortable life. I didn’t do it on purpose or plan it, but I did distance myself from him.

I’ve been in countless people’s homes throughout the end stage disease and dying process. It’s really common for people to disengage as they near death. I always assumed it was to help them leave this world. Disengagement was a means of softening the forever goodbye. Without intending to or even realizing it, I was disengaging for my own self-preservation. When Garry got well, I didn’t know how to let those coping mechanisms go. I didn’t want to. I felt like this continued state of being would protect me and keep me safe knowing the potential for the cancer to return. I had this illusion that I could secretly stay in the widow’s waiting room and Garry wouldn’t notice.

A few weeks ago we ran into a friend who is a breast cancer survivor. Like Garry, she is currently doing well and has no evidence of disease.  They started chatting about their current state and treatments or lack thereof. The conversation then shifted to how their marriages have evolved in the face of cancer.  They both acknowledged their awareness that their spouses were preparing for their death, and acknowledged that as painful as it was watching us plan a life without them, we needed to do that.  Then she said that thing. That thing that made me cringe, and feel so small, and ugly, and sad. She said, “Okay, so it looks like I’m going to be here, so you can come back to me now”. Garry didn’t say anything verbally but his body language showed absolute alignment and understanding with her statement. None of this was directed at me. It was a conversation between the two of them, and I was mostly standing to the side. It was, however, a bitch slap I needed and deserved. I know that was not her intention. She is very kind and thoughtful and I have a great deal of respect for her, and I think that is why her words carried weight with me. 

I’ve sat with that for the last two weeks. I’ve tried to justify staying in the widows waiting room, because “what if”. I even wrote his Oncologist and let her know where I am at emotionally. I asked if I’m being pessimistic/crazy. I told her, I’m stuck and I don’t know how to move on. She wrote me back within hours because she’s a brilliant physician and an even better human. She told me I wasn’t pessimistic, and that the cancer could come back, but then she gave me all the reasons to have hope. I can’t really explain how, but she kind of opened the door for me. It was probably a door that only she could open.

For the first time I started asking myself if I’d regret staying in the widow’s waiting room. It wasn’t about safety for me anymore. It was about regret, and I would regret staying here. I would regret it profoundly.  I don’t care if Garry has months or decades left. I don’t want to spend them in here anymore. I want to go home. It’s moving day. I need to pack my shit and go home. All of me, with nothing held back. I can take the hit of bad news down the road. I’m well-conditioned to take that hit, but I may not have to, and time in the widows waiting room with a healthy husband waiting for me is wasted time. I don’t want an anesthetized life. I don’t want a life of regret. I want a life of deep connection with the man I chose, and would choose again.

Be Like Steve.

I am publishing this with the permission of Steve’s wife, who is a brave badass and forever in my heart as are all the melanoma wives.

Steve was a guy I never met, but he changed my life in immeasurable ways for the better. I want to be like him, but I’m not. I’m entirely too selfish and pessimistic, but I hope to raise my son to be like him. 

When Garry got sick and we were in the early “notification phase” we were sent on a collision course to meet Steve.  The “notification phase” is the part where you have to decide who needs to know you have cancer and how much you tell them, and carry the guilt that you have just given someone you love the worst news of their lives. At some point I recall Garry saying, “I can’t keep doing this. I’m tired of hurting people”. We took care of family first and then chipped away at our friends. 

One of Garry’s early conversations was with his friend Jeff. Jeff is a teacher and a summer raft guide like Garry, and we go on family trips with them every summer. Jeff is also a coach. Two weeks prior to Garry’s call, Jeff had taken a similar notification call from his good friend and fellow coach named Steve. Steve had melanoma, the same melanoma. He also had a wife and a baby and one on the way. Jeff quickly connected Garry and Steve. 

At first they text each other, comparing notes on what they understood about their diagnosis and treatment options. Garry was scheduled for a massive surgical lymph node resection that would likely leave him with debilitating edema. Steve had already been to Anschutz in Aurora and was going to start a clinical trial that did not involve surgery. Garry was all on board for that. He didn’t want to lose his mobility. He had always been an athlete, and that defined who he wanted to be as a father. He wanted to teach Bo how to work an oar frame, and snowboard. He had no intention of being a sidelines dad. He told me almost from day one. “If I have to die I want to die snowboarding and rafting.” Mobility is key to my husbands quality of life, and that has driven most of the decisions we’ve made in regards to his treatment. 

I remember eavesdropping on their first conversation on the phone. It wasn’t hard, because Steve was loud and I could hear him pretty clearly. More than his words I remember his tone and his laugh. This guy was a breath of fresh air. He was the sun shining through the storm clouds. He was full of encouragement and grit. At the time, Garry and I were in a very bad place. My dad had died of a lesser form of melanoma not five years earlier. I was a hospice nurse and knew full well what a death sentence this was. We were grim. We were beyond grim. I couldn’t set us right. I tried to be encouraging and hopeful, but we were still listing hopelessly with no shore in sight. Steve’s conversations were like the hand of God reaching down and setting us back on our feet. I felt like Steve’s voice was the one convincing voice that told us to pull our heads out of our asses and get in the game, because we could still win this. Sometimes when you’re at the end of yourself, you need someone else to set your horizon line. Steve did that. Steve was a coach. He was our cancer coach. 

There is something remarkable about a man who can reach out of his crisis to pull you out of yours. Like I said I want to be like Steve, but I am so far from that. Garry and I joke about our level of compassion fatigue. Sometimes I can barely tolerate hearing about other people’s problems, let alone try and put them back on their feet. Steve paused his own crisis and reached out to us, he knew we were in psychologically worse place than he was, and he knew why. Garry had told him about my dad and my work. Steve said, “this is really in your face then”. He acknowledged that we were there and validated the reasons why, but then found a way to  grab us by the hand and pulled us out. He put us on the right road. He was sunshine. He didn’t have to do that. He was fighting for his own life. It’s a hard place to give from, but he gave. He gave abundantly. I will love him forever. It’s a debt I can’t repay. 

Steve died that July. We didn’t go to the service. I had hip surgery and was non weight bearing on crutches so getting around was hard. Plus, I don’t think we could face it. It was so close to home. I’ve always regretted that though. I would have liked to have been there. I would have liked to give thanks for a life well lived. 

I remember asking Garry if Steve had a wife and kids when they were first connected. He said he didn’t know, and I said I wanted him to find out so we could make them our new best friends. He said, “I don’t think they want to hang out with us. I don’t think they are as depressed as we are. I’m not sure we’d be good for them.”  I realized Garry was right. I don’t think we would have been good for them. 

I found out Steve died because of an article in the newspaper about the death of beloved coach. Garry and Steve had text less and less as they started treatment. I think there was apprehension in wanting to know how the other person was doing. Unless they were both responding well it would be hard. For one of them to be successful while the other was not would be hard. I had never known Steve’s last name, so I wasn’t certain it was him, but I was pretty sure. It was a sucker punch. God, I wanted him to beat it. I wanted family barbecues with the two surviving dads and their families. That was the dream. Then I saw the name of Steve’s wife and I realized I knew her.  We had gone to college together. She played basketball and was very good. She was funny and smart and just a solid cool chick. My heart broke for her, and for her babies. It could so easily have been me and my baby. I was scared to tell Garry about Steve. Garry was responding well to treatment, and I was scared this news would have an adverse effect on that. That night I showed him the article. He held the newspaper and sat down hard on our hearth, one hand going to his temple. It was blow. I could see that. He had believed it would be Steve that would fly through treatment and beat this. He looked at me and said, “That was so fast”. I know this beast, and it’s brutal and fast. Steve’s disease course was very normal. Garry is the outlier. 

I won’t speculate on why Garry is here and Steve is not. That is a dangerous exercise in futility and nothing good will come of it. What I do know is Steve was that guy who saved us. Who set us right. I wish I had known him. I wish I could thank him. I will tell my son about him, and try to remember what he did for us, for me. I will try to be like him. I will fall short, but I will try. 

Love is White

I can’t remember the last time I visited my dad’s grave. I used to go religiously on holidays and his birthday. I would tell him all the news of my life, and the ways BD was growing and changing. I used to feel his presence there, but that faded overtime. At some point I knew he wasn’t there, and my visits declined. Plus, I read a terrifying statistic about women being sexually assaulted while alone in a cemetery. I told myself I’d get over my fear of guns and get one. Then I’d go back to regular cemetery visits while packing heat. I’m still scared of guns and still don’t have one. Additionally, life has been busy, and cemetery visits have been the last thing on my mind. 

Last night I had dinner with an old friend from highschool. I met her my senior year, and first year back in public school since the second grade. I was a senior and she was a sophomore. We took speech class together. On the first day of school we had to answer a bunch of questions as an ice breaker. One of the questions asked what “what color is love?”. She and I were the only ones that answered with the color white. We were friends instantly. To this day she’s one of the people I love, respect and admire most. 

We spent the evening catching up on my marriage, her recent divorce, and how we are surviving everything while trying to navigate the complications of a life we never expected to face. We compared notes on how to make good humans out of our children. She grew up without a dad, and mine died in 2011, so we talked about our moms and their politics. Somehow the conversation wound its way to my dad. She said he was wonderful, and recalled how gentle he was and how rational. He was always the voice of reason. When friends who knew him remind me of who he was it fills me a warmth I can’t explain. It makes my memories real again. I’ve come to doubt a great deal of my memories for a lot of reasons. Confirmation of how I recall him is very comforting. 

We had dinner in Old Town and the cemetery was on my way home. I wasn’t in a rush for once. I love that cemetery. It’s old and has lots of big trees. Often I see deer there. My dad is buried under a twisted pine tree that sheds all over the stone bench marking his grave. I used to bring flowers for him and apples for the deer, but last night I came empty handed. I hoped to see deer, but it was just me the tombstones and the mosquitoes. The evening was warm and the sun was low over the mountains. It was quiet and pretty, but it didn’t take long until the mosquitoes got the best of me. I got in the car and as I drove away a thought hit me. It was light at first, but the weight of it grew until I felt it push the air from my lungs, and the tears from my eyes. When dad died, I lost my softest place to fall. I realized I’ve been free falling for three years. In that moment I desperately wanted my dad to catch me, and I let myself slide into the misery of it all.  I’ve needed to have a good cry for a while. It’s been creeping up on me, and I’ve ignored it. I’ve escaped the tears through the protection of a busy life. Last night it wouldn’t be ignored anymore and I guess that’s okay, I’ve earned it. 

I didn’t know it growing up but my dad understood suffering in a way most of us never will. He was not a perfect man, but he was the perfect father for me. He was exactly the daddy I needed. He was everything I’m not and everything I wish I was. He was a listener more than a speaker, but when he spoke his words were measured and thoughtful and full of wisdom. His words carried a weight mine never will. His eyes were bright blue like my brothers, deep ocean pools. Mine are blue grey like my mother, but I have his smile. He was consistent and fair. He considered the position and intentions of everyone and encouraged me to do the same. He was a brilliant introvert. He loved a good story and books were his oldest friends. Profoundly slow to anger he would raise his voice once every five years. If he raised it at you it was terrifying, but only because it was so rare. He was gentle, and loving, and kind. I always knew my brother and I were his greatest joy. I knew he was proud of us. He was the person in life that I felt I understood most and was the most understood by. 

In many ways I believe he gave me all the tools I needed to navigate his death and life without him. I often know exactly what he would say if he were here, and I were to go to him for advice. I can still hear his voice in my head, but my heart longs to be a little girl again with physical access to him. I loved the comfort of being in his office, back when he smoked a pipe. Vanilla pipe tobacco is still my favorite smell in the world. I love bookshelves full of law books. I can remember the feel of their spines as I’d run my finger tips along them. My bare legs sticking to his overstuffed leather chairs on summer days. To this day I’m freakishly comfortable in an attorney’s office. I haven’t had many reasons to be in one as an adult, but when I am I don’t want to leave. 

When I was in college, my dad told me he didn’t worry about me. He said he knew I would always be ok. I would always find a way, and I’d always be happy. So he didn’t worry. In many ways he was right. I will always find a way, and I’ll be damned before I live a life in misery. I still believe that love is white. It’s pure, utterly without an agenda, and full of hope. Like the love of a father for his daughter. Grief is a funny little beast. It sneaks up so unexpectedly as if time and distance from the loss didn’t exist. It’s a jerk that way, but it often brings gifts if you are willing to really look it in the face. Sometimes grief brings comfort. Sometimes it has to bitch slap you in a cemetery to do it, but it’s worth it.  Go to the cemetery, and remember that love is white.