Postmortem Gratitude

Postmortem Gratitude

By April McQueen

No one told me that with the passing of a loved one, like a second parent, when you are older, you may not cry during the funeral, but you still care.  No one shared how I could be surrounded by people at a church hall repass but feel so alone.  No one said how deafening the silence is with each day after the funeral when the calls, cards, and casseroles slow down, then stop.  No one sees behind my closed doors how shock has turned into the surreal and how solitude becomes the new normal. 

I used to be in a unit, part of a blended family, together as they.  Now it is me…alone, his only child.  Holiday and social invitations may dry up.  People may forget about me, but I can’t help but remember him: my Daddy.  Inside jokes are replaced by outside tears.  “Did I complain too much and love too little?”, I can’t help but wonder.  “Would more visits have been more important?  Was my intention to comfort enough, even though I think I failed as a caregiver, as a power of attorney for healthcare, or as his only child?”  Memories flood my mind and explode in the strangest places and at the oddest times.  No matter how inopportune the moment, grieving is natural, expected, and therapeutic.

There are, however, those who provided such care and support, despite how easy it is to just fade away.  These are the dear, dedicated, significantly notable exceptions that because of whom I have known generosity and peace at this difficult time: my partner, a dear family friend whose father also is late from the same diagnosis, maternal cousins, paternal cousins, two uncles, an aunt, my grief group and its facilitator, my church writing group and its fearless leader, some loving, kind relatives who have gone above and beyond the call of duty with their time, talent, and treasure, and a few special, prayerful friends.

There is no joy in being relieved of the “burden” of searching for that perfect birthday cake or holiday gift for the person, like my Daddy, who already had everything and needed nothing.  But he expressed gratitude for my gesture for the occasion.  There is no one who cares about and celebrates every up and criticizes every down that I experience like my most recently late parent did.  His presence in my life, (and I know I was lucky to have this man as my father), guaranteed there was someone who consistently made time for me to tell him all about what was going on in my life, like it was the most interesting and important thing in the world to him. 

There is no more special someone, Daddy, who has known me every day of my life: Daddy who loved me into existence;  Daddy who carried me through dependent survival;  Daddy who taught me what I needed to thrive in the world; Daddy who made me strong enough to stand on my own two feet, so that I could successfully weather life’s storms and make a difference in the world because of who I am and how I was raised. 

Others forget over time what seems ordinary, but I will always remember the time I no longer have with my beloved Daddy as an extraordinary loss.  No longer will Daddy be there to give support and advice, whether I think I need it or decide to ask. 

All of this was familiar: a rainy-day father and friend, a confidant and counselor with the wisdom of 92 years, who was also my biggest cheerleader.  But what I knew is gone.  A year of firsts without him because there is no more “us” looms ahead, requiring more courage than I think I am able to give to the process of mourning. 

Regrettably, too few photos exist of major and minor events we experienced as Daddy and daughter.  For me, each mundane day, even with the stage four pancreatic cancer, was still an uncommon blessing in the above average life of a man without equal.  What escapes the mind, flourishes in the heart.  “For the time we had, Daddy, I am grateful.”