Easter vacation for me is pretty normal, minus the triathlon that is Easter week madness. Between Palm Sunday, Holy Thursday, Good Friday, Easter Vigil, and Easter Sunday, the Roman Catholic celebration of Easter definitely can be exhausting, and this year was no different.
I don't really want to get into details, for the mere reason that that's not what this post is intended to be about. That being said, my father started feeling much worse than normal right around Wednesday, April 1st, and his spirit left us around 3:55 am on Saturday, April 4th. Obviously, that changed a lot about my break, and I guess this post is mostly to share with you all- or at least attempt to- what is going on inside my head.
For those of you that don't know me very well, I tend to be a pretty spiritual person. I try to make it to church on a regular basis and be an active part of the services. I'm not going to engage in a philosophical debate at this time regarding my religious beliefs, but I'll summarize it similarly to how I silenced one of my interrogative boyfriends: I worship because, at the end of the service, I feel like a better, more complete person. Agree. Disagree. That's cool, I'm not going to judge because we all have our beliefs, but this post will make more sense if you just know that about me. Cool? Ok.
For those of you biblically minded, you can appreciate my connection that the most painful day of my father's life, and the last full one at that, was on Good Friday, and also that just prior to Easter Triduum, my father was in the hospital for three days. I couldn't seem to shake the fact that this was not a coincidence, and if you know me at all, you know I don't believe in coincidences. Despite that 24-hour period being, to date, the most emotionally draining day of my life, I would like to believe that the fact that it happened to be Good Friday was for me to be able to find some comfort in my father's suffering. He was not alone.
But it goes deeper than that. Because my father had no salivary glands from the radiation and chemotherapy from his first cancer 10 years ago, he often took a tiny sponge swab and rinsed his mouth out with water when it got unusually dry.
I'm not saying my dad was like Jesus. Far from it at times, as are we all. All I'm saying is that I was able to find some solace in the fact that I believed that there was a reason for the timing of everything.
So, what now? The week after his death I did not go to work, as I was helping organize some of the services that were culminating at the end of the week, and it was tough. In fact, there hasn't been a day since he passed that I haven't cried, up until yesterday. Now that I'm back in school and have a lot more on my plate, I suppose that it becomes easier, and as time passes, it becomes even easier yet.
But so many things are still harder. Things are different. Things don't feel the same as they used to, and that seems weird to me. You may think this sounds naive of me to say, but any given month I might only see my mother or father two or three times total. I saw more of my father the week of his passing than I had for the entire month of March, so even though I've been without him for only 14 days, why does it feel so different than it did before, with arguably much less time in between?
I guess it's the finality of it all. We all knew that it was his time, and so we tried to make the most of seeing him and being with him every second we could for those three days he was in the hospital. It is almost like time slows down, and you're able to appreciate and cherish even the smallest of moments. It doesn't matter if I used to go 10 days, or five years without seeing my dad, because at the end of the day, I don't get to see him again. At least not in this lifetime.
It's interesting how everything changes after the passing of a loved one, and I feel that I view things a little bit differently now. Am I the first person to ever lose their father? Am I the youngest? No, and no. It does make me realize a few things, though. One being that a loss at this level is quite hard to process, explain, and understand- especially if it's not yet happened to you. Even if it has, variables in others' situations still make it near impossible for someone to completely "get" it, and that makes sense. The second thing that's remarkably evident is the amount of people who come out in support, and it's with a mixture of humbling awe, and disgust that I receive this support from others.
The humbling awe is easy. "Holy crap, I can't believe my father touched this many people's lives." or "Oh my gosh, I can't believe this person came to calling hours, they didn't even know him. Wait, they came for me?" or "THIS person sent a card? But I haven't even spoken to them in over four years!" Yeah. It's overwhelming, but it makes me feel good to know that so many people came out to support the life of my father. He was a remarkable man.
So where does the disgust come from? Me, and it's directed toward myself. I've always found it difficult to communicate my feelings to others face-to-face, or how to know just what to say when someone is having a difficult time, and these past few weeks have forced me to acknowledge that I handle these situations by avoiding them. That's healthy.
I queried recently with my mother about those who knew of my father's struggles these past two years, and did or did not choose to come visit him. It's sad on one end, but I mentioned that- when others were sick and struggling, how many times were they visited by him over the years? This sounds judgmental probably, but it is essentially a way for me to make a point whilst reconciling how shitty a person I feel I've become in a lot of ways. While SO MANY people came out to show their love and support in his passing, his life was a different story.
This whole experience has made me realize that I have a lot of growing to do, and that I have let some people down in my life who were there for me in ways I could have never imagined this week. One of my best friends sent me a care package in the mail. Days after HER birthday. I haven't even begun to thank people yet because, with friends and loved ones like that, I'm just overwhelmed and don't have the words. (Who'd have thunk, Dad, that I would have ever run out of words, right?)
I guess my point is: I don't want that to be me anymore, and I'm grateful that so much of my father's life, for better or worse, has taught me so much about mine. Maybe it's easier to ignore the pain, and cover it with humor. ( I feel like the Dartnells invented this concept...) Maybe it's easier to not send condolences or "thank you"s because, well, if I don't know what to say, why bother? Maybe it's easier to not come to the funeral because I didn't really know them that well and I don't want the family to wonder who I am. These are ridiculous statements, but at times in my life I have made decisions with these thoughts in mind, and I'm not proud of that. I can't change what was done, but I can make the efforts to try to be a better, and more supportive sister/daughter/wife/friend/teacher/co-worker. God knows I have a ways to go.
I miss my dad so much. Just typing the words makes my computer screen blurry because I still can't quite fathom it. The invincible man with (almost) nine lives is gone, and I just have this gaping emptiness inside. I'm still me. I still laugh, and make jokes, and live life, but I just do it a bit differently now. Life is too short to have regrets, or to be so afraid to say the wrong thing that you just say nothing at all. It's too short to tiptoe around your feelings, or keep toxic relationships in your life because what's convenient is easy.
I miss hearing his voice when I called home, and noticing the perk-up when he realized it was me. I miss his unhealthy relationship with our cat. I miss his formidable fashion sense when walking around the house, and the trendy duct tape he would use to fix clothes before he'd ever throw them away. I miss his sense of humor, and his unwavering intellect- even after three near fatal head injuries. I miss his candor about the actors during films, and the stunned look on people's faces when he would ace every question in a game of Jeopardy. And lastly, I hate the fact that I have to go back every other sentence he's mentioned and change the verb to past tense because even my grammar can't reconcile the fact that he's gone.
This post didn't have a point, really, or any strong sense of theme or fluidity. It was, in essence, to do a few things: to get out my feelings, to apologize to those I've let down, and to share my immense gratitude for those who have been incredibly supportive these past two weeks. Your strength and comfort have taught me a lot, and I love you all.
And most importantly, to remember the man that was my father. It is finished.
RIP Timothy Francis Dartnell
2/9/1947 - 4/4/2015
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