I was doing fine this year leading up to Father’s Day. It was going to be all about my husband.
I have three children. My father had a unique yet different connection with them all. Although I’m coming along, I still hurt at the loss of my father.
While we were clearing out my father’s condo, I made a point of carefully wrapping everything I remembered he had since I was a child.
If you’re ready, your loved ones’ possessions may be soothing to have around. I’m glad I wasn’t quick to go through my father’s possessions.
Yesterday would have been my father’s 86th birthday. It’s been 13 months since he died. He died exactly one month shy of his 85th birthday.
This is the first spring I truly appreciate since my father died over a year ago. I always liked seeing nature in action but this year it’s making me pause.
I wasn’t always great about calling my father regularly. I can’t change it but I wish I would have called more often. Sometimes weeks would slip by and then he’d call me.
I was reassured by so many people that the pain of losing my father would subside. Anyone that had lost a parent agreed.
Sports and fathers just seem to fit together. I’ve been thinking about the sports my father enjoyed and taught me to appreciate since Super Bowl Sunday is upon us.
In moments of complete logic and clarity, I realize how draining grieving and mourning can be. The pain of my father’s death is not so harsh all the time; it’s more of a dull pain.
I am grateful I was able to stay with my last two furry companions when they took their last breaths. I wanted to be there for them in the end.
I have been angry for so long and then my anger shifted to numbness when my dog, Bubbles, died recently.
Shortly after my father died, I packed up all my sheet music, closed the piano lid, and hid my accordion. My father loved music.
On Christmas morning, I started the day early with my new ritual of sitting in my chair, reflecting, praying, and reading.
The past two weeks I’ve been sitting peacefully, nestled in a lavender wingback chair, every morning in front of our Christmas tree.
I used to send my father Steinbach Christmas tree ornaments when we lived in Germany in early 1980 and then again in early 1990.
Gingerbread men have always been Dambedei for me and my father introduced that word into my immediate family’s vocabulary.
I thought I could escape the sadness of missing my father this Thanksgiving. We planned to visit with our son, daughter-in-law, and granddaughter. A family reunion of sorts just without our oldest son. I was excited.
This week was my 55th birthday. It was my first birthday since my father died. He was always the first one to wish me a happy birthday.
The last time I saw my father alive was six weeks before he died. I knew he didn’t have much longer, but I couldn’t admit it to myself then. His breathing was labored. He could barely walk. His health had deteriorated exponentially over a few months yet his mind was still intact. He was frail and frustrated. This is not how I expected to see my father. He had become a sickly old man. That’s the picture I’ve had stuck in my head since he died: sickly, dependent, and weak.
I saw my father six weeks before he died. My friend, whose father died a year prior, told me to ask my father questions when I went to see him. She insisted I ask him everything I wanted to know about anything. I didn’t really know what she meant then. I didn’t ask my father any questions. Now, I understand and I wish I had asked while I had the chance.