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Dad, I miss you

Dad (9/1/35-1/9/08) and me

“Hi Dad, it’s me.”

“Hi Dee. Heidi!” (laughing) “Hey, Heidi!”

(smirking) “Hi, Dad.”

“Is this the person with whom I am speaking?”

“Yes, Dad.” (laughing) “This is the person with whom you are speaking.”

(laughing) “How are you, Deanna Lynn?”

“I’m okay, Dad. I wanted to pick up the phone and call you today. There are lots of times when I want to call you, and then I have to remind myself…
(that you are gone) and have the conversation in my head. Hey, Dad, do you remember that six-hour phone call we had? I’m glad neither of us had to go, to hang up. We loved talking, didn’t we? About everything and anything (except politics). Remember when Betty packed lunches for us to take to the beach? Just you and I. We sat and talked and looked out at the water. You told me how much you missed your dad. You cried and said you just wanted to hug him and be hugged by him once more.”

“Yes, I remember. I think. When was that? Were we on the phone that long?”

(laughing) “I love you, Dad.”

“I love you too, sweetheart. Now, what can I do you for?” 

“I just wanted to let you know I was thinking about you.”

“Well, that’s the nicest thing I’ve heard all day!”

“Dad, I was thinking about how strict you were. Remembering how you clenched your jaw when you were really angry at me (usually about politics and my differing views). How you pushed vitamins on me, always concerned about my health. And you’d always tell me, ‘Stay away from dark alleys, and always watch your back,’  as I went on my way. I knew you loved me. And were proud of me. ‘Deanna Lynn!’ you’d snap two names into one with a Southern drawl, ‘How’d you get so damned smart?!’ And then you’d tell me how beautiful I was, and I’d act all embarrassed. But I liked the praise. And your finger waving, ‘I’ll always be your dad. No matter how old you are, I’ll always worry about you.’ I liked that too. And the way you hugged me too tightly. I miss your bear hugs. I miss you, Dad.”

“I miss you too, honey.”

“You told me, after Sam died, and right before you died, that I’d feel joy again. ‘One day…you will,’ you said. And I argued with you, ‘No, Dad. I’m sorry. I won’t.’ I wish I had just agreed with you. Let you be my dad and be right, and worry about me less.”

“I still worry about you.”

“No more worrying, Dad. I’m okay now. Really. But I wish I could pick up the phone and talk to you. Sit at the beach and hold your hand. Share one more vodka and tonic with you. I wish I could hug you and be hugged by you once more…

“I love you, Dad.”

Categories: Rewriting Life After Loss

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Rewriting life since the sudden death of my nine-year-old son, Sam (2007).
Trying to LEARN, think, remember, IMAGINE, cope, care, read, EAT, write, live, LAUGH, listen, enjoy, walk, meditate, stretch, watch, stop, BREATHE...and keep going.

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