Proud

Sometimes I wish you could tell me how proud you are of me. Does that seem selfish? Or is it just that I respected what you thought of me so much that it meant the world for you to say those simple words. I'm proud of you. 

It's hard to lose one of the few people in life who you feel truly understands you. Does that seem narcissistic? Why can't it be that maybe you felt that way about me too. I love you. 

I often wonder if there will ever be a truly happy moment in life. Am I being too cynical? Or does it just feel like life will be forever bittersweet. I miss you. 

Vivid Dreams

Vivid dreams turn into nightmares when I wake
Into a world where everything I’ve ever known is gone
Lost, gasping for that familiar air
I try to close my eyes again because a moment ago you were there
So real, I swear I heard your voice again
Calling me to come to you, letting me know you’re alright
I see your smile, it spreads to your eyes in a way only yours could do
But how could it be? I guess what I’m seeing isn’t really you
I slowly sit up, realizing my hopes have taken over my sleep
While tears stream quickly down my face, the hurt and pain runs deep
I can’t go on, or so it seems
It’s like living inside of a shell
Just a blank stare and a forced smile to hide what I’m really feeling
I’m in this box, I can’t get out, closed in by the walls and ceiling
Suffocating gently, though it’s better than the alternative - facing my new reality
So I’ll just stay here a while longer, praying that, tonight, you’ll come back to visit me

Make a Wish

Today should have been a day of celebration. It should have been a day of sugar-free cake and wrapped presents that would eventually reveal Yankees apparel and memorabilia, barbecue tools and New York Giants tee shirts.

But, instead, today is sad.

Today, my Dad would have been 57. Still young. Still vibrant. Still yearning to experience everything that life has to offer.

Today, I'd give anything to be able to wish him a happy birthday. To be scouring the stores for the Yankees shirt he didn't already own. To have him mad at all of us for even making a big deal about the fact that he was a year older.

Yes, 57 years ago, today, an incredible man was born. A man that I miss every day. But especially today.

I keep hearing it gets easier. I know this has to be true but, for now, I can't think about celebrating his life when I'm still grieving the loss of it.

I do feel fortunate to have spent my Dad's last birthday with him but, now, I feel like I should have done more. Not that I could have known, but if I had, I would have done more, given more. More love. More time. More life. Things we probably don't wish for when blowing out those candles but the things that suddenly become so important when we lose someone we love. Things that are important to me now.

"No one ever told me..."

I'm struggling today. I have been. And, for some reason, in this time of struggle, I haven't been able to write. I have been reading a lot, though. So instead of using my own thoughts, I'm going to borrow the thoughts of someone else.

"No one ever told me that grief felt so like fear. I am not afraid, but the sensation is like being afraid. The same fluttering in the stomach, the same restlessness, the yawning. I keep on swallowing.

At other times it feels like being mildly drunk, or concussed. There is a sort of invisible blanket between the world and me. I find it hard to take in what anyone says. Or perhaps, hard to want to take it in. It is so uninteresting.

Yet I want the others to be about me. I dread the moments when the house is empty. If only they would talk to one another and not to me . . .

An odd by-product of my loss is that I’m afraid of being an embarrassment to everyone I meet. At work, at the club, in the street, I see people, as they approach me, trying to make up their minds whether they’ll ‘say something about it’ or not. I hate it if they do, and if they don’t . . .

And grief still feels like fear. Perhaps more strictly, like suspense. Or like waiting; just hanging about waiting for something to happen. It gives life a permanently provisional feeling. It doesn’t seem worth starting anything. I can’t settle down. I yawn, I fidget, I smoke too much. Up till this I always had too little time. Now there is nothing but time. Almost pure time, empty successiveness . . ."

C. S. Lewis, from A Grief Observed

All my love, always...

Today isn't my birthday. For that matter, neither is tomorrow. But, if you asked my Dad, he would have told you that technically, on a year that isn't a Leap Year, it should be celebrated on March 1. So, for each year over the past 29 years that wasn't a Leap Year, my Dad would tell me on the morning of the 28th that I should have a great day but, technically, it wasn't my birthday. It wasn't until the morning of the first that I'd receive that happy birthday from him. His jovial, booming voice saying "Happy Birthday Tush Tush" (an embarrassing nickname that no one else was - or is - allowed to call me).

Either way, the 28th or the first, birthday or not, today just doesn't feel the same without him.

About a week after I returned home from Las Vegas in September - the hardest trip of my life - I was rummaging through my things as I was moving and stumbled upon my birthday card from last year from him. And it gave me the chills. Just a few words to "carry in my heart." It's almost as though he placed the card there for me to find it. It's served as the background on my phone for the last several months - both as a reminder that I had the most incredible dad anyone could ever ask for but also because I love seeing his writing. "All my love, always, Dad."

Well, Dad, today may be my "sort of kind of birthday" but, today, - just like every other day - I have an emptiness in my heart. I miss you. I love you. And I wish you were here to celebrate this birthday and the next 30.

A Heart Shaped Box

I wanted to send you flowers today, but I wasn't sure if it would help or just make it hurt more.

I thought about going to pick out some chocolates, placing them in a heart-shaped box and have them sitting on your counter next to a beautiful bouquet of flowers, but I'm not him, so I can't remember the flowers you like or all of your favorite chocolates.

I wanted to be closer to you today (and every day)so that I could give you a hug and let you know just how much I knew he loved you. To let you know that I can't imagine the hurt and the pain you are going through today and every day. To let you know that I love you and I'd take all of that pain away and make it better, if I could.

Today, Mom, I just want to say that you are an amazing person who was loved so much by an incredible man and, while we all miss him, I know that he was your best friend, your partner, your "babe" and I hope that his love continues to live inside of you each day, helping you to get through this. To stay strong.

I love you, Mom.

Today

Today, is Super Bowl Sunday.

A day my dad held in high regard. A day that my dad never minded working because I'm sure watching the game in the midst of a VIP casino party was far better than trying to watch the game at home with three daughters.

And, as Peyton gets ready for another Super Bowl appearance, I know that, today, my dad and I would be debating the "better Manning," sitting around eating the best cured meats (cold cuts), imported cheese and a bevy of other antipasti (ant-eh-pahst).

He'd be telling stories about MetLife stadium, before it was owned by the insurance giant, and how it only cost [insert ridiculous low price here] to get into the game.

He and my husband, Kyle, would be discussing statistics, recalling past championship games and, every hour or so, he'd tell me how great my sauce smelt.

It would be a great day.

An average day in my life - spending time with the greatest man, in my eyes, to have walked this earth but one that I'm sure, then, I took for granted, one that, now, I would give anything to have back.

So today, I'm sad.

Today, I'm angry.

Today, I miss him more.