My dad passed away at the beginning of August. It was expected and it was at home and, all things considered, was no more and no less than what one would expect from the death of one’s ailing father. One’s Favorite dad.
It was hard. And it’s harder yet to write about it. But I haven’t written anything else either, because all the little things I might mention are dammed up behind that event and it isn’t honest to leave out this biggie.
It’s easy for me to believe that my dad who had Parkinson’s disease and congestive heart failure passed away. I saw him just a few hours before he died, and he was miserable. Harder is the realization that my quietly smiling, chuckling dad has gone. My soft-spoken, introverted, book-in-hand dad with the ticklish feet is gone. My dad who, whenever asked for a five, would press a folded twenty into my hand. Who loved my dogs and husbands and kid and who turned the car around for my forgotten purse a million times.
And a million other sweet memories. I had a good dad. That makes me one of the luckiest women I know.